Amazon.com Sales

*

I've sold two books this weekend. Hope my "profit" is enough to mail them to the buyers.

*

My sweet sister Susan's birthday is tomorrow. I remember when she was a screaming infant and I was supposed to be "watching" her. She kept kicking and screaming, and I covered my ears (and probably shut my eyes), and she fell off the bed. I'm so sorry, Suze.

Friday: Condensed Version

I walked about three miles yesterday, round and round the Clinic corridors, getting more irritable all the time. It was their fault, not mine.

*

I'd like to spend the rest of today in bed, but it hurts my conscience.

Clinic Appointment Tomorrow

When I go for my checkup, I'm always afraid they'll find something terrible. So I always try to fortify and cheer myself beforehand. Get my clothes all pressed and ready. Make a list of things to discuss, such as pain in my toes and tunes stuck in my mind. Invent stoic phrases, such as, "I've crossed the ocean in an airplane, so I think I can handle this." Which is true.

Chicken Marinara

I've got some chicken strips thawing in the kitchen. A few days ago, I breaded and browned some in butter with lots of spices, added half a jar of chunky pasta sauce, and cooked it too long, of course. But it was so good, I've decided to make some today and serve it to myself with pasta.

(Gretchen Dog enjoyed what stuck to the pan.)

This is my dish today. Green pepper strips for dipping in the sauce.

Wuthering Heights

I haven't read this book in recent years, and today it's almost like reading it for the first time. The Biographical Note and Preface, both written by Charlotte Bronte, are so powerful, they make the hair stand up on the nape.

The first chapter of Emily's book is full of a dark, perverse and irresistible humor--Mr. Lockwood fending off the dogs with a poker, the cook restoring order with a frying pan, and Joseph muttering under his breath. And Lockwood's attempt to relate to Heathcliff by comparing their reserved natures, is a compliment to the latter's cultivated inhumanity, but presumptuous in the extreme. Still, it provides continuity, in that Lockwood will return to Wuthering Heights and resume the tale.

Serendipity

Yesterday I further messed up every closet in the house, looking for more of a certain fabric.

I didn't find it, but I did find two purses, four scarves and a bin full of shoes and boots, all of which I had forgot about.

One Of the World's Best Poems

       In No Strange Land

           The kingdom of God is within you

O world invisible, we view thee,
O world intangible, we touch thee,
O world unknowable, we know thee,
Inapprehensible, we clutch thee!

Does the fish soar to find the ocean,
The eagle plunge to find the air--
That we ask of the stars in motion
If they have rumor of thee there?

Not where the wheeling systems darken,
And our benumbed conceiving soars!--
The drift of pinions, would we hearken,
Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors.

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 to Heaven by the hems;
And lo, Christ walking on the water,
Not of Genesareth, but Thames!


By Francis Thompson

*

***

Detail of a Jacob's Ladder quilt

When You Need To Laugh

. . . just pull up some old videos on YouTube, of the Clown Prince of Denmark, Victor Borge.

I think anyone can endure at least five minutes of him before getting tired of laughing.

Syndactyly

I have mild incomplete webbing between my long and ring fingers.

But my poor old toes are a different matter. The second and third toes are webbed almost half their length.

The Way Of All Soaps

Interesting characters have dropped by the wayside: Pamuk dead, William dead, Richard Carlisle cast into outer darkness, Martha Levinson shipped back to the States. No explanation of what ever happened to Drake. Matthew wasn't particularly interesting, but he was cute.

The only interesting new character is Shrimpy, and he's got to leave his gorgeous Highland estate and go to India. (I liked his explanation of what was wrong with his marriage: "I don't like her.")

There was much in Season 3 that one had to overlook, to keep watching the thing. Ethel--probably the most unnecessary character in the whole thing--except for Rose. A tiny spark of light in Episode 7 was Clarkson's attempt to propose to Isobel, and her priceless choice of words to cut him off.

Isobel has provided moments of relief and sense throughout the whole show--"Do you want to go on killing things and eating them?" "Then the war has taught you nothing." "Don't worry about her [the Dowager]--if you had gone, she would have found something else..."

Sibyl is dead, Mary is a widowed mother, and Edith has acquired another dead-end suitor. Bates and Anna are happy, Thomas and O'Brien have had their comeuppance, and Daisy is in the way of being Mr. Mason's heir. Branson is managing Downton Abbey, which bodes pretty well for its future; I can imagine him in the 1960's, maybe, living alone in a run-down castle stuffed with relics of the past.

It's just a play, and it should have ended its run some time ago, before it got boring.

Copernicus' 540th Birthday

Matilda Visits Every Monday, Just Stays Until Noon (Period).

That's a mnemonic formula for remembering the planets in order from the sun.

This is my formula for remembering the U.S. presidents--through Reagan. Then it hit a couple I didn't care to remember:

When Andrew Jackson Married Mrs. Andrew Jackson, Very High Taxes Payable To Federal Public Bureaus Limited Jacksons' Giving Honeymoon Gifts. Andrew's Country Home Cost More, Really, Than Washington Houses Cost. He Read Three Educational Kentucky Journals Nightly, For Curious Reasons.

Buttermilk Skies

Scam City

Yesterday morning the phone rang, and the man said he was with the Medicare office. As always when confronted with Authority, I thought, "What have I done now?"

"We're getting ready to send out the new Medicare cards, and I have to verify your name and address. Are you Joanne R. Cage at [my address]?" etc., until he got to, "What is the name of your bank?"

The key word is morning. Still in my morning fog, I said, "Regions."

"Is that the Regions bank in Leeds, Alabama?"

"Uh huh."

The man said, "We have to be absolutely sure we're sending this card to the correct person. Give me your routing number and account number, printed on the bottom of your check. Do you need a moment to get your checkbook?"

Finally my brain kicked in and began to work.

"Why do I need a new Medicare card?" I asked.

"We're issuing new cards to all seniors entitled before [some date]."

"Well," I said, "you have my address, so you can mail it to me if you want to." And I hung up.

I thought, I need to report this, for the benefit of people who may be even stupider than I am. But I couldn't think where to report it.

Part of me hopes I receive a new Medicare card, proving that I'm not any stupider than average.

*
"New Medicare scheme falsely claims new cards are being issued"
I found this online, so apparently everybody knew about it except me.

For dinner I made what the English call passties. I rolled my biscuit dough out thin, put canned corned beef hash between two layers, pinched the edges together, and baked them brown. They were good, which was a surprise, because my messes don't always turn out so well. They were better than the ones Jenny and I tried to eat in England, not so rich and greasy.

Sunday,  I watched "Looking For Lincoln" on PBS, then Downton Abbey episode 6. It seems impossible that next Sunday's episode will be the finale of D.A.'s season 3. Tempus fugit.

As always when studying Lincoln, one is left with contradictory feelings about the man. Lincoln was a lawyer, with a deep respect for legality. He made seemingly contradictory decisions, always based on the law, such as protecting a black woman against the claims of a southern plantation owner by finding that the woman was a legal resident of Illinois, then finding that a slave who had run away to Illinois must be returned because he was "legal property."

Faced with deciding murder charges against a group of more than a hundred American Indians, he had about 30 of them hanged (I'm not certain of these numbers, but the proportions are about right).

Lincoln was also a 19th century white man, with his share of conventional flaws and prejudices. He did not believe that Negroes were mentally and physically equal to whites, but he always said that slavery was wrong.

Doris Kearns Goodwin co-hosted the show, with Henry Lewis Gates, Jr. Goodwin's book, Team of Rivals: The Political Genius Of Abraham Lincoln, was one of the best biographies I've ever read about anybody. It pointed out that Lincoln chose Seward and other political opponents as his closest advisors, because he knew he needed them if he was going to win the war. The PBS program also illustrated this point.

In spite of recognizing his defects and disagreeing with some of his opinions, I am left with admiration for his insight, personality and power in winning the elections and the war, and with profound pity for his personal life. With a contrary wife, the loss of two young children, and a country tearing itself apart, it's no wonder that his originally depressed psyche dropped lower and lower, until the end.

Old Wine In a New Bottle

I bought a new dress. Since it's the first time that has happened in many years, I thought it worth mentioning.

I tried it different ways, but it won't print vertical.

If I had got a 10, the sleeves would be too short.

It's a bit fancy for a dress that may be doomed to hang in the closet until the shoulders are discolored, like several others that I've never worn. It's a little short for an old lady of 156 years, but what the heck.

I can't wait for an excuse to wear it, or at least to try it on. I may have to go get my hair curled and colored first.

More than that, yesterday I ordered a pair of high wedge-heeled black shoes--the only pretty pair of shoes I've seen in years.

So sometime this week I may go to the Pants Store and replace my old L.L. Beans with a new pair of jeans. Then I'll be all set for another decade or so.

Palm Leaf Quilt

This is the picture  Sharon sent me of the quilt I gave her when she and O.B. married. I finally figured out how to save it in my pictures folder. This quilt also appears in one of my sister Susan's Oxmoor House quilt books, in the 80's or 90's.

New Year's Resolution In February

I'm not exactly sick and tired of waking up in the morning and spending the next two to four hours at the computer. But it slowly dawns on me, that doing so is not the wisest use of my time.

I hereby limit my computer time to one hour in the a.m. and one hour before I go to bed.

Unless I get a good idea for a story. Even then, I won't write for more than two hours a day.

Starting tomorrow.

Man In a Short-Sleeved Shirt

A disturbing dream:

This guy kept following me around the house, and I kept yelling at him to get out. I had already succeeded in making all his buddies get out, but he kept grinning and making jokes, while I was trying to lock all the windows. It was an old house with about a hundred windows, with those old-timey latches at the top, and some of the locks were missing. And some of the windows were just glass panels set in that wouldn't open anyway. The man finally left, and I locked the door behind him.

*

I guess the groundhog saw his shadow this morning. But I forget the significance of that. Will spring be late or early?

Four Seasons Miniature Quilt

Stunned

Monday night's poetry reading was a blast. Doris and I were the first ones there, and for a while it seemed we might be the only ones, but people started trickling in until we had a good little crowd. Our poet-artist Sherry read a beautiful winter piece, as full of color as a painting. Frank's "Mayan" poem seemed somewhere between a scold and a paean to life-as-it-is: Live life as it comes and don't worry about the end.

I was rendered speechless by their reception of my poem "Je Reviens." Joan said to leave the title in French. Her own poem was, as always, a keen reflection of her beautiful home by the river. Beth read one restating all her usual new year's resolutions, sort of tongue-in-cheek. And of course, Joe W. brought a couple of brilliant gems.
*

Old Maid's Ramble, one of the best quilts I've ever made. It measures, including the sashing and border, about 14 inches square.

(We've got our "Browse" function back!)

*

One of the most exciting group conversations I've ever heard in a  movie:

"What does that mean?"

"He's offering him a draw."

"Josh is offering him a draw!"

(The movie is "Searching For Bobby Fischer")

Beep

I was sleeping so good, when something went "Beep!"

I thought it was my head noises making a new, louder sound. In a little while, it beeped again. I counted slowly, and on 24, it beeped again. After about a dozen beeps, I finally dragged myself out of bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window...no. Out in the hallway, it was more like a "Screech!" Every 24 to 30 seconds.

On the hallway wall outside my bedroom door, there are the thermostat, the doorbell, and a smoke/CO alarm. I know that the thermostat is mute; it can't say anything, let alone "Beep!" The doorbell has done a lot of funny things, like ringing by itself or not ringing at all, but never before has it beeped. So it has to be the alarm.

By now, I'm wide awake, so I go through the house hunting a clock, and it's 4:50 a.m. Beep! Dang it. The only thing I've ever heard from this alarm before was a female voice yelling, "Carbon monoxide! Carbon monoxide!" That was when Willis started the lawn mower in the basement/garage. I guess the battery in the thing is probably low; I think I've heard a similar, but not so loud, screech from a different smoke alarm when the battery wore down. Only on this thing, I have no idea how to change the battery. So I just turned on the computer, and here I sit, listening to "Beep!"

If I can find my big hammer, maybe I can make it stop.
*
I got the cover off the thing. Inside, it said a short beep every 30 seconds indicates alarm malfunction, but didn't say what to do about it. It said if the battery is low, it gives a short beep every 60 seconds and says "low battery.". I removed the batteries and the beeping stopped. When I get some new batteries, I'll replace them and see if it works.

Ms. Fixit, exhausted

After a couple more hours removing and replacing the cartridges, I finally got the printer to work. So I printed some poems to read at the meeting tonight, including "Virginia Woolf." January 25th was VW's birthday, and Dale S. posted a diary excerpt by her on Facebook. I posted this poem in response, and Dale said it was a treasure, and I should submit it for publication. So I emailed it to Jim and Liz Reed's Birmingham Arts Journal. The only prize it has ever won was an "honorable mention" back in 1994 or so.

Woolf had spells of intense depression, which she called insanity. One day in 1941, she put on a big overcoat, went out and filled the pockets with rocks, and walked into the River Ouse.

Madness or allergies? It should have been
investigated. I would have tried;
and I would have fed you sweet potatoes,
corn, and tender cabbages,
no lowing beef or crying lamb,
no bleeding beets or haunted cress
to wake the spectres in your brain;
I would have given you one strawberry
and, as you ate it, watched to see
if your great eyes began to spin
and see the fin beneath the waves.
I would have raised you on some hilltop
out of sight or sound of the sea,
on field peas and fresh onions,
sourwood honey and sassafras tea,
baked your bread in the old range oven
and smeared it thick with apple butter.
Apples never hurt anyone.
*

The fourth episode of Downton Season 3 was depressing enough. Beautiful Sibyl died in agony after childbirth, and Bates got set up for some kind of a showdown in prison. Last week, Strallan left Edith unmarried at the altar. Daisy likes Alfred, the ugly footman. As Nero Wolfe would say, "Pfui!"

Situation Normal . . .

Tomorrow evening is the poetry meeting night, and my printer is jammed. I installed a new cartridge so i could print some poems, but the cartridges won't move. I've gone through the fixing process over and over. I'm almost ready to cuss, but it usually doesn't help.

FAVORITES

My favorite writers:

William Shakespeare, poet and playwright
Charles Dickens, novelist
Mark Twain, novelist, memoirist and travel writer
Rudyard Kipling, poet and fiction writer
Robert Browning, poet
W. Somerset Maugham, novelist, playwright and short story writer
Lloyd Alexander, novelist (children's and young adults')
Lewis Carroll
Robert Frost, poet
Shirley Jackson, novelist

*

Novels I've read the most times:

Gone With the Wind, by Margaret Mitchell
China Court, by Rumer Godden
A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens
The Razor's Edge, by Somerset Maugham
Random Harvest, by James Hilton
The Haunting of Hill House, by Shirley Jackson
Rebecca, by Daphne duMaurier
The Black Cauldron, by Lloyd Alexander
The Dead Zone, by Stephen King
The Education of Little Tree, by Forrest Carter

*

I think it's time for another pot roast, only this time not so spicy. And some rice instead of cornbread. Or maybe both.

Speaking Of Teachers

When I was in the tenth grade, a required course was world history. It was taught by a very eccentric country gentleman whom everyone called Fesser. Throughout the course, he emphasized several times that Napoleon Bonaparte's real defeat occurred when he invaded Russia and his army was decimated. In his own inimitable expression, Fesser insisted that Napoleon met his "Waterloo" in Russia.

The boys in the class ate this up. They would take up half a class period arguing with Fesser that Napoleon couldn't have met his Waterloo in Russia, because Waterloo was in Belgium, and the battle occurred two years after the Russian campaign.

When final exam time came, we went into the classroom to find that Fesser had written all the exam questions on the blackboard, and he proceeded to read the questions aloud to make sure everyone understood them.

Fesser raised his voice to read out the final question:

"Where did Napoleon meet his Waterloo?"

He raised his voice even louder and said, "And if anybody puts Waterloo, Belgium, I'll flunk every one of y'ens!"

Having Fun

An old friend of mine named Shirley used to say that she liked for everything to be fun, and she made it that way. But then, she was a beautiful woman, and she could afford to laugh when someone tried to brush a hair off her shoulder and found it was attached to her chin.

I've known some funny people. Neil C. did a one-handstand on a folding metal chair, and suffered bruises but no breaks.

I've always tried to be funny, but nobody laughs.

Anyway, I was thinking about Shirley's philosophy, and decided that I need to have more fun. Some fun. So I'm going to try 30 days of waking up thinking of what would be fun to do, instead of what-all I need to do that probably won't get done.
*
Enjoyed watching a few minutes of the inaugural parade yesterday afternoon. I liked Michelle's beautiful coat, and Joe Biden running back and forth, shaking hands and hugging children.

Weird

One night before the TV crashed, I watched an early 2000 movie called "K-PAX." Kevin Spacey was an extraterrestrial come to earth, and Jeff Bridges was the psychiatrist who treated him in the mental hospital. Great movie. Why had I never heard of it before?
*

One of the old songs that run through my head from time to time is "Black Is the Color Of My True Love's Hair." Only, it usually gets transformed into, "Green is the color..." etc. So this morning I thought of some lines to go with "green":

Green is the color of my true love's hair;
The wrong kind of dye was his despair.
Green are his nails and his gentle hands,
But I still love the ground whereon he stands.

I think the transformation occurred when a beauty shop tried to lighten my daughter's hair, and it turned green.
*
As to the television: Sometimes it will hold out for an hour or two without going totally pixillated. Episode 3 of Season 3 of D.A. airs tonight, and I hope I can catch it. If not, I'll watch it online.
*
This is another sunny day. They let us get used to sunshine, and then hit us with a string of damp, cold days when it gets dark by four o'clock. I guess it's to build our character.

Tribute To My Teachers

Their words that I remember:

"Mrs. Ramey, look at this painting by your little girl!" Clara DeShazo, first grade.

"You did that on purpose!" Pluma T. Kimbro, second grade.

"They sound good when she reads them." G.M. Ramey about Anne C. Layfield, third grade, reading my poems aloud.

"You may have the Valentine box." Norma Whitmire, fourth grade.

"Thank you for being honest." Margaret Pate (Burke or White?), fifth grade.

"'Frank and I,' Jimmy! 'Frank and I!'" Imogene Elgin, sixth grade (to "Can me an' Frank dust the erasers?")

"You would wear that dress!" Bertha Nel Allen, seventh grade (about an old-fashioned blue taffeta evening dress with a bustle effect, that my mother made.)

"I remember Joanne Ramey." Jane Hooten, eighth grade (many years later).

"We don't put our hands on our faces in the lab." Ellen Launius Harding, ninth grade. (This lab was where I asked Dwight N. if he would marry me. The only boy I ever proposed to.)

"I am an A-son, not a P-son." Beatrice Kitchens Thomason, tenth grade.

"Side-angle-side equals side-angle-side," with a beaming smile. James Piper, eleventh grade.

"Exackly!" Robert E. Cummins, twelfth grade.
"You have all these poetic ideas!" Beverly Hapgood, twelfth grade.

Snow?

I bet it'll look cute, floating on the big rain puddles in my back yard--pardon me, "backyard." The "frontyard" doesn't have any puddles.

But there are a couple in the east sideyard.
*
12:00 noon: Well, it's falling. I should have had more faith. Snow in January. Across the street, two guys and a dog are just standing out there in it, looking beatific.

Wednesday Poem

The Television's

defunct

that used to

show me twice a day

Jeopardy

and onetwothreefourfivesix categoriesjustlikethat



Wow

it was a great flat screen

and what I want to know is

how do you like your broken-down set

Mister Repairman


by j r cage
01/16/13

*

This is a parody of e e commings's poem "Buffalo Bill's/defunct."

Another Cloudy Day

It has rained so much these days that the back yard has big puddles, and water spots have come up through the basement floor. Last night I heard thunder and a hard rain. Or was that Sunday night?

I've been up most of the night with Mo. So we're off to the vet, as soon as I clean up and make sure my eyes are open. Poor Mo.

Also last night, the TV went haywire. Pixillated. So I watched an old video, "Sense and Sensibility."

Poem For Sunday

Je reviens

Rocks I have touched in Greene County,
Cheddar Gorge and North Carolina
hold my caress, and I am there.

Clouds hold my gaze: snow-white lambs,
gray curtain clouds and cyclones
know me, and remember.

And oh red clay, black loam,
quicksand in the well-fields leaching out
between my toes! I come back often.

Every puddle, stream, lake, ocean
or river I have waded or tried to swim
keeps my reflection.

Trees I have embraced: the skinny pine,
the oak primeval and the wounded ginkgo,
keep me in their bark.

Green grass I have rolled in,
clutched face-down, the fescue,
the clover: they hold my shape and form.

Roads I have traveled (red clay):
sand, gravel, and the pavements gray--
when you walk them, follow my footprints.

The imprint of my lips lingers
on every face I ever kissed, and won't wash off.
See me in your mirror.

Now every parting becomes a greeting;
I never went away but I returned
and always will.

By JRC, 01/13/13

Is that sunshine I see?

 The days have been so dreary. Usually about this time, I want to go back to bed. But this morning the sun is shining, and I've already been out there! Makes me feel like a kid again.

Second cup of coffee makes it even better.

*

The sun was shining on the sea,
shining with all his might;
he did his very best to make
the billows smooth and bright--
and this was odd, because it was
the middle of the night.

The moon was shining fitfully,
because she thought the sun
had got no business to be there,
after the day was done.
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"to come and spoil the fun."

The sea was wet as wet could be;
the sand was dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
no cloud was in the sky.
No birds were flying overhead;
there were no birds to fly.

A Walrus and a Carpenter
were walking close at hand;
they wept like anything to see
such quantities of sand.
"If this were only cleared away,"
they said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops
swept it for half a year,
do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"that they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it!" said the Carpenter,
and shed a bitter tear.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
the Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
along the briny beach!
We cannot do with more than four
to give a hand to each!"

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
but never a word he said.
The eldest Oyster looked at him
and shook his heavy head,
as if to say he did not choose
to leave the Oyster bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,
all eager for the treat;
their clothes were brushed, their faces washed,
their shoes were clean and neat--
and this was odd because, you know,
they hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
and then another four,
and thick and fast they came at last,
and more, and more, and more--
all scrambling through the briny waves
and hopping to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
walked on a mile or so,
and then they rested on a rock
conveniently low;
and all the little Oysters stood
and waited in a row.

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"to talk of many things:
of shoes, and ships, and sealing wax,
of cabbages and kings,
and why the sea is boiling hot,
and whether pigs have wings.

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

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

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

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

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

"O Oysters!" said the Carpenter,
"you've had a pleasant run.
Shall we be trotting home again?"
But answer came there none--
and this was scarcely odd, because
they'd eaten every one!

--Charles Lutwidge Dodgson

Germ of a poem

Birth Of a Poem

". . .while deep inside,
I heard a creature cry and catch its breath. . ."

***

Maybe someday it'll turn into something.

No, my browse function isn't fixed. This is a photo that was already in "This Blog," although it really wasn't.

Happy Elvis's Birthday!

Sunday:  Season 3, episode 1 of Downton Abbey, was better than I expected. Even old Shirl was pretty good, especially the expressions on her face as she slowly realized the Family were going to hit her up for more cash. No mention was made of Sir Richard Carlisle and his ominous newspapers; at least he held off until Mary was safely married.

Pat and India dropped by at 8:00 to watch the show with me. They brought me a beautiful birthday card and two lovely gifts.

Monday:  The Tide just tromped all over the Fighting Irish. Ho hum, almost, until you remember that Texas A&M beat Bama, and Miss. State (or Old Miss, I never can remember which) gave them a good run.

Is it fair, that the coaches seem to get all the credit for great teams? Maybe so. Who deserves the credit, and who deserves the blame? Nikolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky is his name.

Tuesday:  What adventures does today hold? I think Mo has to go to the vet.

Coming Up

Last night I put a pot roast in the crock pot, so today I eat. As soon as I make a pan of cornbread.

Tomorrow Season 3 of Downton Abbey starts, at 8:00 p.m. I'm not awfully excited about it. I think bringing in Shirley Maclaine was a mistake. I don't much like the fashions in the 1920's. I liked Lavinia Swire better than Mary. I think if Bates or O'Brian didn't kill Vera, then she did accidentally commit suicide. And I doubt we'll find out which in Season 3. Still and all, I plan to watch it.

Then there's the Big Game on Monday. Roll Tide, and all.

*

Sharon O. emailed me a photo of the quilt I gave her when she and O.B. married. I couldn't get it to save to my photographs, but maybe Jed can help me straighten out the picture posting.

More Happy Trails

My neighbor Jared has moved to Wichita, KS, and his little yellow house is up for sale. I haven't seen much of him since he moved here about ten years ago. He has burned the midnight oil, studied and worked at UAB constantly, and has earned all kinds of degrees in nursing. A couple of days ago, he brought over the remainder of his textbooks for me to list on Amazon (that's not to say "sell"), and said he is now a nurse-anesthetist.

"I put people to sleep," he said.

I said, "that ought to be fun, especially if they wake up."

He said, "Yes, that's the hard part."

I'm sure he'll be successful in his new job, and I hope he keeps in touch. His mother lives somewhere around Leeds; I met her once when they had a yard sale next door, where I bought a couple of my treasures. Such as this one, which I've never figured out what to do with:

%#!!*$!!

Well, I guess that's the end of my posting pictures on my blog. Up until today, I could click on "add photo," and I got a screen that said "Browse." Now it says "Upload (from) Webcam, your phone, a URL," and several other things that will not go to my photographs.
*

Jan. 30, 2013: The Browse feature returned as mysteriously as it had disappeared.

Happy Trails!

All the New Year greetings on Facebook made me think of Roy and Dale Rogers. One time I dreamed that I went with Mama, Daddy and the girls to California, and we drove by Roy and Dale's house. There were little cat-size hippopotamuses all over their lawn, and their backs were colored enamel.

***

I spent several hours yesterday shopping online for clothes--making up orders which I didn't send. A dress, two pairs of pants, a blouse, and two T-shirts. It occurs to me, what if I gain all that weight back, and then have a bunch of new clothes that are too little, and a bunch of old clothes that still need to be altered. I hate clothes. People ought to go wrapped in blankets, or pretty quilts.

I don't really hate clothes; what I hate is shopping. And trying to get things to fit. Shoulder seams that are halfway down to my elbows. Long sleeves that end above my wrist bones.

But I have to make up my mind and send the orders today, because the sales end tomorrow.

A Hitch In My Get-Along

Did you ever have a "crick" in your neck? Of course, you did. Well, I've got one in my left leg. Makes walking sort of House-like and painful. But I'll give it the usual treatment: Ignore it till it goes away. Only, it's hard to ignore, because sometimes you have to walk.

I've always wanted one of these "brilliant-cut" glass paperweights for my collection. I received this one as one of my birthday presents. If the sun had been shining, I could've got a prettier picture.

So now I'm officially old. The "Old Party."*

"I grow old, I grow old,
I wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled."**

At least I've got pretties to play with and a little bit of money to spend, and my name as a poet is locally renowned with half-a-dozen or so people.***

*Somerset Maugham
**T.S. Eliot
***"The Bohemian Girl," Balfe

The Good, the Bad (Flu) and the Precious

Sister Susan's Soup Night at the Yellow House yesterday was really wonderful. All kinds of good food, two gentlemen at the table (Jesse and Jed), two beautiful nieces (Andy and India), and we three sisters. The bad part is that Susy seemed to get the crud, the flu probably. I'm worried about her.

Jed and I are spending Christmas Day inside, probably. Salads and soups and pie for lunch, if I can get myself together enough to cope.

Two of my favorite dolls in the collection. My dear friend Miriam, and her two lovely girls Christy and Brittany, gave me the big doll, and I made the pink dress and named her Margaret after my cousin Margaret Isbell. The little doll is Charlotte Anne Tommicarr, that I rescued from a junk/antiques shop many years ago, and beautified her a little bit.

We're supposed to get thunderstorms today and tonight. Hope everyone stays safe and dry.

Pictures

Foyer

TV

Fireplace

Coffee Table & Raggedy Sofa

Little Tree With Topper



Kitchen Table

OCD

I'm sort of a "Pure-O." Have been all my life. "If I win this game, everything's going to be all right."

"I just touched something, so I have to wash my hands."

"I must pay my bills, so I'll do it tomorrow."

"I know that if I step on a crack, it won't break my mother's back, but I avoid stepping on cracks, just in case."

"While I've been trying to decide what's best to do, all the time has slipped away."

"I know how to dance, how to jump rope. But if I move a certain way, something bad will happen."

They aren't conscious or vocalized thoughts, just urges and habits and ways of avoiding suffering.

I guess knowing this about myself, and sometimes managing to act anyway, has enabled me to live this long.
*
I started to major in psychology in college, but it scared me so I switched to English.

Spanish Lady

As I went down to Dublin city,
At the hour of twelve at night,
Who should I see but the Spanish Lady,
Washing her feet by candle-light.
First she washed them, then she dried them
Over a fire of amber coals,
In all my life I ne'er did see
A maid so sweet about the soul.

CHORUS:
Whack fol the toora, loora laddi-o
Whack fol the toora loora lay

As I went back through Dublin city
At the hour of half-past eight
Who should I see but the Spanish Lady
Brushing her hair outside the gate.
First she brushed it, then she fluffed it,
In her hand was a silver comb.
In all my life I ne'er did see
A maid so fair since I did roam.

CHORUS

As I came back through Dublin city
As the sun began to set
Who should I see but the Spanish Lady
Catching a moth in a golden net.
When she saw me then she fled me
Lifting her petticoat over her knee
In all my life I ne'er did see
A maid so shy as the Spanish Lady.

CHORUS

I've wandered north and I've wandered south
By Stoneybatter and Patrick's Close
Up and around by the Gloucester Diamond
And back by Napper Tandy's house.
Old age has laid her hand on me
Cold as a fire of ashy coals
But where o where is the Spanish Lady,
Neat and sweet about the soul?

CHORUS

(traditional Dublin version dating from the 19th century)

Hope and Trust

I've lost 30 pounds in the past couple of years, but getting back on the meds and supplements may reverse the process. I can't seem to get enough to eat, and believe me, I'm trying. Before long, I may be a roly-poly, merry fat clown of a person. Yeah.

Children, let me assure you that the world doesn't end on Friday. It doesn't leave enough time for all the other stuff to happen. Something dreadful may happen. What day passes without something dreadful happening? But it won't be the last time.

I've been hoping that the increased intake of nourishment would give me the rush of energy necessary to get the house and myself ready for the Christmas festivities. So far, it hasn't worked. But I've still got a day or two left, and a few cans of Progresso chicken-noodle. So glad that Christmas comes but once a year.

***

Curly Sue and the Nutcrackers are ready.

***

And to top it off, last night I got an order for an enormous "coffee-table" book, that will cost almost as much to ship as the sale price.

Light In the Tunnel

If anybody ever tells you that coffee doesn't help, send them to me for education. Woke up this morning with my usual plodding, hopeless anxiety, although not as bad as usual. After a cup of coffee, I began to feel, "Well, Sista, evathang gonna be awright."

And then my cousin Chris emails me a beautiful video of people singing Christmas carols in a mall. I didn't even know that Chris remembered me or knew I was alive. Chris is my cousin Bill's son, and he looks like Santa Claus or Dale Short, all those dear people with big white beards. Bill was my first cousin once removed, so I guess Chris is my first cousin twice removed, or my third cousin, or just one of God's chillun. Anyway, I love him.

So what I'm going to do today, Lord willing, is to finish straightening up and decorating and so forth.

Devastating News

The school shooting in Connecticut--makes you want to hug every child you see.

Making an Effort

Big Effort





Little Lop-Sided Tree, No Topper

Christmasy Stuff

I long ago picked up an old raggedy tablecloth at a yard sale. I bleached and ironed it, and made the apron that this doll is wearing.

Mama gave me this old doll in the late sixties or early seventies. I named her Sylvia, after my cousin Sylvia Ramey, and because it's my favorite girl's name.

Later on, I made a bunch of Christmas stockings and gave one to almost everybody I knew. I kept these two:

The white one is made from the remains of the tablecloth, and the knit one from an old sweater.

***

Seems like every day, I wear myself out thinking of all the dirty jobs around the house that I should be doing. And I do tackle one of them, every now and then, but I don't last very long at them. It gripes my soul to admit that I'm old, but one has to take 156 years into consideration (I feel twice as old as I'll be on the 27th of this month). So, I guess I'll just muddle along, striking a lick at the house when I feel a modicum of energy, and letting the rest of it wait till some sunny day.

Deck the Floor and Furniture

I've practically wasted the day, pulling out Christmas decorations, untangling garlands

and lights,

and trying to figure out how to hang the wreath on the door (I don't have one of those metal things).

I've found a few of my miniature ornaments,

while the poor little lop-sided tree still stands cold and naked:

There are so many dirtier, more useful jobs that I need to be doing.

While I was hunting my favorite Christmas cards to put in the window on the mantel,

Mo jumped into the box and lay down on top of everything.

Ms. Fixit

A couple of days ago my TV went black. Nothing I tried would get anything on the screen except the channel directory. I phoned Charter, and a nice lady led me through the process of dis-/reconnecting the cable box and a lot of other stuff. I missed Jeopardy, but the service person was very clear in her instructions. When my TV came back on, the lady and I told each other how smart we are.

POP OT DEPOOP OOT

Today I've cleaned out cabinets and toted out trash, until I'm thoroughly that spelled back'ards. Much of what I threw away was "treasure," and some of what I kept ought to be trashed. And may be, next bagful.

James James Morrison's Mother

Today I drove down to the end of the town, and got back in time for tea. I wanted to see what has been built where Uncle Doug's house used to be, and I think the Canterburys'. There's nothing at all there, but Leeds stretches several blocks further on towards the trestle, all kinds of what might be little businesses.

Then I went and bought a Christmas wreath, so now I've got to find something that will enable me to hang it on the door, which is made of glass.

Then I went by Sonics and ordered a bacon cheeseburger. When I got home, in the Sonics bag was a bacon-and-egg sandwich, but by then I didn't care any more.
*
The news says that Voyager I, which left earth in 1977, is now 11 billion miles from the sun. I'll bet that's where Elvis went, and when he gets back, he'll still be middle-aged, and the rest of us will be dust.

New Poem

Went to the LAC poetry group meeting yesterday evening. This time, there were about twenty people there. I read this little new poem, that needs a lot of work:

The Near-Sighted Shepherd

There was heavenly music, and dazzling lights,
and we all looked up at the sky;
I saw what looked like some fuzzy white lambs,
but thought they were clouds floating by.

When someone said “Angels!” I wanted to weep
because of my poor feeble sight
that couldn't see angels but only some sheep
and a light that made day of the night.

When the “lambs” started singing, I suddenly could see
more angels than stars in the skies!
But the Babe in the manger, to me, seemed to be
a Lamb with heavenly eyes.

by JRC 11/26/12

Feeling Useful

Cleaning out kitchen cabinets. Such fun.