I love Google's tribute to Edith Head's 116th birthday. That lady designed not only beautiful gowns, but whole wardrobes for movies all the years of my youth and early maturity. In my opinion, she was a better designer than all those French and Italian guys put together.

*

Well, it was a terrific weekend around here. Jed came over Friday and brought a new haunted-house game. Ramey, Susan, Jesse, India and her friend Jason came over, and we all went to Logan's where Jed treated us to dinner. Then we (all but India and Jason) played the game, which has about 1.5 million game pieces and two or three volumes of instructions. Jed and Jesse had to tell us how to proceed. We're lucky to have two such savvy gamesters in the family.

Then on Saturday, Jed and I went to Montevallo for the state poetry society awards luncheon. I won four prizes, including a first, a second, and two honorable mentions. Ramey won a prize in one of the contests, and Jerri H. and Evelyn H. won a couple of dozen prizes apiece. Evelyn is one of my favorite poets, and a beautiful lady. This time I remembered to take my camera, but didn't take any pictures.

I forget what we did Saturday evening. Jed read A Wrinkle In Time again over the weekend. Then Sunday we ate lunch at Chili's in Trussville, and Jed went back to Atlanta.

I hope a good time was had by all; it certainly was by me.
*
Here's what I forgot: Friday night we gathered at Susan's and ate fried chicken and looked at the game. It was Saturday evening that we went to Logan's. I'm learning to live with my aging memory. In one of Alice Munro's short stories, there's a priceless line by a woman whose husband was concerned about her losing and not remembering things: "I don't think it's anything to worry about," she said, "I'm probably just losing my mind."

LAC hosted Bham Arts Journal

LAC table decorations

Pretty Stacey at the Birmingham Arts Journal meeting

Mr. Marchant chowing down

It was a good gathering Thursday evening at the Leeds Arts Council. There were several artists and writers there whose works were published in the current issue of Liz and Jim Reed's Birmingham Arts Journal. Some of the writers read from their works. Then Frank and Stacey and I read; I think we were the only readers who weren't in the current Journal. I read my witch poem.

Stacey is a new member of our Leeds poetry group which we have named "The Open Circle."

The picture of Spurgeon won't sit up straight. His right arm has a rolled shirtsleeve, and his left arm looks like it has a buttoned cuff and a jacket. I don't know how that happened. But that's okay. Spurgeon would approve of the photo.

*

Re: Spurgeon's shirt: I think both his cuffs were buttoned. The left wrist is just sticking out from behind the black vest he had on.

*

One day this week while I was driving up Montevallo Road, there was a hawk with outspread wings sort of hovering over the street, just above treetop height. The sun shining on him showed all the colors, and it took my breath away, and took my feet up off the floor. Fortunately, there was only one car behind me, going slow. I started waving my arms and pointing up at the bird.

Then yesterday, coming home from somewhere, I saw what might have been the same hawk above Rowan Road. Wings spread out, just sort of hanging there. "The heavens declare the glory of God," for sure. Especially when there's a hawk in the sunshine.

But First, the Internet

Well, I slept five solid hours, and probably needed more, but with all I have to do today, I couldn't stay in bed. All I have to do is more than any 156-year-old crone can possibly get done, but have to give it a shot.

Jed had some tests yesterday and was feeling a bit goofy, so he decided not to come over today for the Birmingham Arts Journal meeting. He said the tests were OK. He will come over this weekend, and we'll go to Montevallo for the Alabama State Poetry Society meeting, Lord willing.

I had threatened to dress up for the meeting tonight, so yesterday I tried on The Dress, which still had the price tag.

The photo insists on lying sideways. But man, it looks great on, and it isn't too short, which I was afraid it might be. It should have been a couple of sizes smaller; but the sleeves would have been too short. I have unusually long arms for my size, which I guess proves I have a common ancestor with the great apes.

First thing, I have to choose and print a poem to read tonight. Tempted to read "Poof! There Goes Mr. G.," which I wrote in 1955. But no. I need to keep my reputation, such as it is.

*

4:40 p.m. Now I'm too tired to take another shower and pull on some clean clothes. But I will anyway. Just hope I don't go to sleep in the meeting.

*

9;45 p.m. I'm so tired, it hurts to move my arms. How will I get this dress off?

Interesting Note On Genetic Testing

Jed's "100 percent European" analysis still has me puzzled, even more so now. The lady (Barbara) in Nebraska who phoned me for information about Cages is the granddaughter of Nell Josephine Cage Reis, who was Grand-Daddy Cage's sister. In talking about her ancestors, Barbara said that, according to "the old folks," Mary Hatfield Cage was half Indian.

Mary Hatfield Cage was the mother of Julius Theodore (Jack) Cage I, Nell Josephine Cage Reis, and all their brothers and sisters. Jack Cage I was the grandfather of Jack Cage III (or IV--there was an older nephew named after Jack the First), Jenny Cage and Jed Cage.

I'd like to know which agency did Jed's testing, and which one is doing Susan's testing, and compare the two.

Is it probable that two women of approximately the same generation, when American Indians were mistreated and vilified, would claim to be Indians if they were not? Mary Hatfield Cage is the same relation to Jed as Eliza Jane Miskelly Ramey is to us. If Mary were half Indian, then Jed would be a sixteenth, I think. That ought to be enough to show up somewhere in the DNA.

Archimedes

But what are all such niceties to me,
Whose head is full of indices and surds?

x² + 7x + 53
 

= ¹¹/<sub>3

***</sub>

 I didn't remember what Barbara said about her great-grandmother until this morning after I started to throw away a sheet of paper on which I had written notes while talking to Barbara.




***

Mary Emma Hatfield

Found 10 Records, 10 Photos and 1,014,804 Family Trees

Born in Woodville, Mississippi, USA on 1865 to Thomas Hatfield. Mary Emma married Dewitt B Cage and had 13 children. She passed away on 28 Aug 1944.

Family Members

Parents

• Thomas Hatfield
• Unavailable

Spouse(s)

Children

• Dewitt B Cage1864-1915

• Euphrozine Cage
• Pearl Clarice CageUnknown-1975
• Mary Martha Cage1890-Unknown
• Ellie Josephine Cage1892-Unknown
• Alice Lea Cage1893-1920
• James Edward Cage1894-Unknown
• Dweitt Barnett Cage1899-1916
• Marguerite Cage1901-Unknown
• Julius Theodore Cage1902-1966
• Emma Hortense Cage1904-1971
• Millie Juliette Cage1905-Unknown
• Thomas George Cage1906-1956
• Laura Virginia Cage1907-1908

By me:

"Euphrozine" is the one they called Flora.

Aunt Pearl married Uncle Ludwig, but I forget his last name.

Ellie Josephine was Aunt Nell.

James Edward and Dewitt Barnett are the ones Jed is named after.

Marguerite was Aunt Margie.

Julius Theodore (Jack) was Granddaddy Cage, married Flora Walker.

Emma Hortense was Aunt Emma who lived in Washington, DC.

 

I don't know which one was called "Uncle Harvey," who was still alive in the late 1950's and lived in Nebraska with Aunt Nell. Maybe Harvey was Nell's husband's uncle. But he looked just like a Cage. So did Nell's husband.

I don't know which one was Willa, who married Jere Camp. They lived in Mississippi, and I think their son's name was Howard. Willa was the youngest of the sisters, so I guess her birth name was Millie Juliette. They tended to call themselves anything they chose.

***

November 14th: Purvis. Aunt Pearl and Uncle Ludwig's last name was Purvis. Julius and I visited them in Jackson, MS. Their son Jimmy, his wife Anne, and their terrifying toddler son Mike. When we walked into their house, Mike aimed his bow and arrow at me and said, "I'm going to kill you!" Jimmy looked sheepish and said, "He means it!"

 

Blue Shadows

Blue shadows on the trail
Blue moon shinin' through the trees
And a plaintive wail in the distance
Comes driftin' on the evening breeze

Move along, blue shadows, move along
Soon the dawn will come and you'll be on your way

But until the darkness sheds its veil
There'll be blue shadows on the trail

-- Roy Rogers

*

I watched my old video recording of "Michael" this morning, to banish some of my blue shadows.

Chunks Of Prose: Muddy Waters

Leaves, By Me

You can tell people all kinds of truths, except the truth about themselves or their offspring, or their works. The truth about my oeuvre is that it's all poor imitation, except for this colored drawing,

this sketch,

this sky painting:

and a few of what I stubbornly call poems.

Until 1994 when the Alabama State Poetry Society was revealed to me, I didn't presume to call my verse "poetry." The "poet," Mr. Ralph H., chided me for saying that I wrote verse instead of poetry. Upon acquaintance with the output of the ASPS membership (and their contemporaries around the country), I understood why he said that. What most of them wrote might at a long stretch of the definition have been poetry, but it sure as H. wasn't verse. We all long to belong, so I settled in, consenting to be called a poet.

What happened was that in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, some famous poets started occasionally dispensing with obvious forms, end rhyme, and a few other traditional elements of poetry. The world at large took this to mean that all the bonds were loosened and anything one chooses to write down and call a poem is one. Maybe they're right. I don't know. I DO know, but who am I to judge? The waters are muddied.

Excellent, dude!

While I ate my lunch, I watched a few minutes of "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure." I think this film is probably what inspired my poem "River Cruise," in which we picked up Joan of Arc, Richard II and a couple more Plantagenets, Mary Queen of Scots, Father Murphy, and a lot of other folks in danger.

Almost forgot

Maybe this month will get me out of solitary and into a more sociable mood. In addition to reunion and ASPS meeting, on October 24 (Thursday) the Leeds poetry group will host The Birmingham Arts Journal's quarterly meeting at the Leeds Arts Center. For this I have threatened to "dress up" in the latest new dress that I've never worn. Everybody else will probably be in jeans and tee shirts, and I'll wind up feeling like a fool. But that's OK; it has happened before.

Reunion

Met today with about 20 old friends and classmates for lunch at Fishmarket on 280. It was such a joy and privilege to meet so many good friends again, some of whom I hadn't seen since high school. There were only about 40 people in our graduating class, and we are blessed that so many of us are still around. Sandra came from Tuscaloosa, and the rest of us live in or near the Birmingham/Leeds area. It's amazing, how many of "the girls" have grown from pretty girls to purely beautiful mature women. Our whole class was right good-looking, I think. So many cute boys, and now most of them have gone on to the next place. Georgia, Joyce Earle, Evelyn Jo, Helon and Virginia were our beauty queens, all of them still sashaying around, though Helon and Virginia didn't make it to the luncheon.

Very satisfying day. And a week from next Saturday, I get to see a bunch of the Alabama State Poetry Society folks at the fall awards luncheon in Montevallo. Which reminds me, I have to send in reservations for Jed and myself.

Next week, on the 15th, one of the charity trucks will prowl the neighborhood. I think I'll get brave and donate all the clothes I've shrunk out of, instead of holding onto them and expecting myself to alter or have them altered. I need a new fall/winter wardrobe, anyway. A "wardrobe" to me is a new pair of jeans and a couple of cotton shirts.

The Little Black Boy

Here's a poem that broke my heart and influenced me from an early age:

My mother bore me in the southern wild,

And I am black, but O! my soul is white;

White as an angel is the English child: 

But I am black as if bereav'd of light.

 

My mother taught me underneath a tree 

And sitting down before the heat of day,

She took me on her lap and kissed me,

And pointing to the east began to say: 

Look on the rising sun: there God does live 

And gives his light, and gives his heat away. 

And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive

Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

And we are put on earth a little space,

That we may learn to bear the beams of love, 

And these black bodies and this sun-burnt face

Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear 

The cloud will vanish, we shall hear his voice 

Saying: Come out from the grove my love and care,

And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.

Thus did my mother say and kissed me, 

And thus I say to little English boy: 

When I from black and he from white cloud free,

And round the tent of God like lambs we joy: 

I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear, 

To lean in joy upon our father's knee. 

And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,

And be like him, and he will then love me.

 

By William Blake

*

I've always tended to think of Blake as an ethereal creature, solitary and withdrawn, lost in his poetry and imagery. Actually, according to history, he was a prickly, pugnacious rebel, of the earth and earthy. Friend of rebels, including Mary Wollstonecraft, preaching for women's rights and opposing institutions such as organized religion.

Hitting the Wall

I got out of bed and something slammed me against the wall. I didn't fall down, but had to hold on for a while to walk around. Later, the beams in the living room ceiling whirled around, but not as fast as they did in 2006 or whenever it was that I had that spell, and no nausea this time.

I rescheduled my September checkup appointment for November 4th. So with the vertigo, I'll have something interesting to discuss with the M.D.
*
Searching online for the symptoms, I believe I may have Meniere's disease. Which is preferable to a lot of other diseases; but it can be pretty scary if you don't know what's the matter.

Ancestor Relics - 2.

Aggie

Once I had an aggie, genuine,
smaller than an ordinary marble.
I envied Doug, who had a flour sack
full of marbles of all shapes and sizes.
I have to hope my aggie was a gift
from Doug, and that I didn't steal it from him.

Recent Stuff

Last night I watched "A Beautiful Mind" on TV. That's a powerful movie. I hadn't seen it in several years. "Terrified! Mortified! Petrified!"

Mo passed on a couple of weeks ago, and I still occasionally start to the basement to check on him, then remind myself that he's gone. I'm very tempted to let the white cat come in and establish residence; but then I remind myself of my resolution. Haven't seen the black cat in several weeks, so I guess he's gone, too.

Today I reworked my Amazon.com inventory, lowering many of the book prices.

Ancestor Relics

1. The Hunting Horn

Say his name three times quickly:
Reed Roe Ramey--
Some wits would call him Railroad Ramey.
With Loud and Drive he'd hunt
the wily 'coon all night,
the dogs baying,
the horn echoing around the mountain,
while the bored raccoon most likely fell asleep
in the high fork of a sweet gum tree.

By JRC 10/01/13

Idle Gossip

My neighbor(s) to the east, who moved in after Jared moved out, have four vehicles in their yard, one with a car cover on it. I think the covered one is an open red sports car of some ilk. One of the others is a pickup truck. I haven't seen a sign of life over there in weeks. I don't spy on my neighbors, but can't avoid looking that way out my kitchen window, when I'm washing dishes or filling the dishwasher.
*
I look forward to the day when I'll wake up with enough energy and grit to clean my house from the basement to the ceilings in one day. It's bound to come, because I've been saving it up for so long.

And to wash the car, as well.

The Plan For Today

"O paladins, the lesson for today
Is how to be unhappy, yet polite!" -- Robert Frost

The Plan:

Today I will accomplish great things, if I don't go back to bed.

No: Today, I will clean the toilets.

The manuscript
is now in print,
in large type that
requires no squint.

The cat's defunct,
the dog has fled.
I will not
go back to bed.

Although today
my moods may vary,
I'll not resort
to Harry Carey.

[OR: Although of life
I may be weary,
I won't resort
to hara kiri.]

And after all
is said and done,
I'll burn my bridges
one by one.

Another cup
of coffee, mates;
and we'll see what
segatuates.

New Post, New Poem

Carnival Night

"Cross my palm with silver,"
The blind old gypsy said;
Her robe was silver satin,
And the turban she wore was red;
And golden rings swung from her ears,
And her eyes stared without sight,
When I went to have my fortune told
Near the end of carnival night.

I gave her all the coins I had,
Not caring what tale she spun;
For the future I dreamed, she would never guess,
And I'd hear of no other one;
For I dreamed of Robin only,
And Robin I would wed;
But "The bird you love will fly away
And never return," she said.

I felt a chill run up my spine,
And I fled the gypsy's tent,
Telling myself she spoke by chance,
That it couldn't be Robin she meant.
But scarcely a year and a day had passed,
When the golden bird took flight;
And I recalled what the gypsy said
Near the end of carnival night.

By JRC, 9/29/13

*

A lady just called me from Bellevue, Nebraska. She said that Aunt Nell (Cage) Reis was her grandmother, and she wanted information about Nell's generation of Cages, and information about the Cage "plantation" in Mississippi. I don't know anything about the plantation, but I snail-mailed her a list of all of DeWitt Barnett and Mary Hatfield Cage's children that I knew, or knew about.

"Success Is Counted Sweetest..."

After less than an hour this morning, taking the print cartridges out and putting them back again, I finally got the printer to work. It only took parts of three days to accomplish this awesome task.

Reluctantly, I accept responsibility for the difficulty. After all, I take at least fifteen minutes to make a sandwich and ten minutes for a cup of instant coffee. Which I think I'll do right now.

Family Legend and Mystery

Reed Ramey ca. 1890-1966

When I was a little girl, I asked my grandpa (Reed Ramey) what his mother's name was before she married. He said, "Her name was Eliza Miskelley. She was a Indian."

I was a "reader" since before I could remember, and that sounded odd to me. I said something like, "That sounds like an Irish name."

"No," Paw Paw said, "she wasn't Irish. She was a Indian."

When I was in school and the girls (Susan and Patsy) were little, Paw Paw went traveling with a neighbor family, and they went out west. My dad, Gordy Ramey, said that Paw Paw said he was going to see "the Old Man's grave," which Daddy said meant Paw Paw's grandpa. He went to Oklahoma, and brought back a jar full of painted desert sand, which the girls played with.

Geronimo 1829-1909

Both Geronimo and Quanah Parker are buried at Fort Sill Post in Oklahoma. Geronimo was Apache, Quanah was half-Comanche.

When my sister Pat (Ramey) was grown up, she asked Paw Paw's daughter Bobbie Lee who her Indian grandpa was. Bobbie said he was "that old mean Indian that everybody was afraid of," but she said she didn't remember his name. Pat named over several historical Indians, and when she said "Geronimo," Bobbie said that was the one.

Other voices added to the legends: Our cousin Betty Joyce said that her mother, Paw Paw's daughter Beatrice, always said that her grandmother was a Cherokee Indian. Gordy (my dad) said that it sounded like Cherokee, but it was really Chiricahua. Geronimo was born Bedonkohe Apache but later joined and led Chiricahua  Indians.

One of Daddy's cousins, a son of  Uncle Cobb (Paw Paw's brother), said, "We always heard that we were Apache."

A childhood friend of our mother, named Allene H., said that old Mrs. Ramey (Eliza), who was a midwife, just "looked like an old Indian squaw."

There is at least one family picture from the early 1900's showing an unidentified little boy with strings of beads around his neck; some of the beads had Indian designs.

The mystery is that the census records show Eliza Jane Miskelley as a daughter in the household of Lucien Miskelley in South Carolina. Lucien's ancestor was Irish.

The mystery is deepened by the genetic analysis of my son which he received last year, that indicated he was "100% European."

The mystery is further compounded by the fact that our maternal grandfather was part Cherokee or some other eastern American Indian.

So, we have a choice. We can go with the family stories, that my generation is at least one-eighth Apache Indian, with a dab of Cherokee on the other side. Or we can choose to think a slice of us is Irish, which nobody in our family ever suggested, and which was specifically denied by my grandpa Reed.

Personally, I like the Indian blood and hope it flows in me. My blood type, at least, is a positive indication.
*
Another mysterious little bit is that if you Google Eliza Jane Miskelley, you get a whole bunch of different people named Eliza or Jane or Eliza Jane, Miskelley, Miskelly, or Misskelly. So whether Great-Grandma was Lucien's daughter or not is questionable.

Grrrrrr!!!

Yesterday I replaced the black cartridge in my printer, and spent a couple of hours afterward trying to get the printer to work. I tried every trick I've ever thought of, taking the cartridges out and putting them back, pushing the cartridges back and forth, turning the printer off and on, unplugging it and starting over, over and over again. This morning I've spent an hour going through the same efforts, and it still says "clear cartridge jam" and "cartridge missing or not detected."

Yes, I removed the plastic covering the ink in the new cartridge. Yes, I followed the animated instructions of how to clear the cartridge jam, dozens of times.

What it is, I've been trying to print my manuscript, a few pages at a time, so that I can mail it to myself to date the copyright when I register it. Because that's what Leigh Anne at AlphaGraphics said to do, that's why. Also, so that if the $#!!%# computer goes up in smoke, I'll have a hard copy of the manuscript.

Getting the cartridges out and putting them back is so hard to do in the first place, I'm afraid I've damaged the whole mechanism, pushing it so hard.

Busy Month Ahead

October is shaping up to be full of opportunities for getting out of the house, in a good way. My classmate Betty C. just phoned and said those of us still topside will meet October 12th at the Fishmarket for lunch and talking. We haven't had a reunion in a couple of years, and I'm looking forward to seeing old buddies.

Then on Saturday, Oct. 26th, the State Poetry Society will meet in Montevallo. I find that I did enter several poems in the fall competition, so maybe I'll win something.

Meanwhile, the regular September spoiler is coming up the day after tomorrow. Have to go to The D----d Kirklin Clinic for the semi-annual checkup session. I'm already getting nervouser and nervouser.

Not Exactly Yummy

Well, I finally made the corn pudding yesterday. There's about enough of it to feed Cox's army, but it isn't very good. The recipe said cook it at 350 degrees for 45 minutes. I cooked it an hour and fifteen, and it's still pale and soggy. If I ever use this recipe again, I'll preheat the oven to at least 400.

Today I've fed Mo, paid the mowers, talked to the Cook's man, packed a book and fixed a manuscript to mail. Now if I can just clean myself up and go to the post office, I'll call it a pretty good day.

*

My Amazon record shows that I've sold more than 600 books over the years. At a generous average of $5 profit per book, I wonder if it was worth the trouble.

Today, for the first time in months, I picked Mo up and held him close, and the most amazing warmth and peace came over me. Yet it was mixed with the sadness of nostalgia, and a feeling almost like loneliness.

Emotion remembered in tranquility sometimes makes you cry.

Foucault's Pendulum by Umberto Eco

The Name Of the Rose, by Eco, is one of the best novels I've ever read. I assumed that I would like Foucault's Pendulum, and one year I set about to read it. I read and read, and kept reading, sure that pretty soon I would come to some connected words that I fully understood. I did dimly recognize references to one esoteric topic in which I was not interested enough to explore further. If I remember correctly, it was about halfway through the book that I gave up and quit reading.

*

I sit here wondering what to do about all the stuff in my house. I no longer care about most of it. Aside from the books, almost none of it is dear to my heart. What have quilts ever done for me that an old wool blanket couldn't do? What's Limoges to me, or I to Limoges? After reading Stephen King and other horrorists, I find dolls disturbing, and there are sixty-something of them in my house.

Thoreau said no man is so poor that he must sit on a pumpkin. I say a nice plump pumpkin might be an improvement over some of my antiquated (not "antique") seating.

I guess a yard sale is the logical solution, if I can ever summon the stamina to proceed in that direction.

X-square times 7x plus 23 equals eleven thirds

Well, I guess I've figured out how to convert my manuscript from 8-1/2 by 11 inches to 5.5 x 8.5, and still keep the page numbers consecutive. I've worked all morning on the thing, and still have to do the acknowledgments. And think of something for the cover, front and back.

Jed came over Wednesday and stayed until Friday morning. I forget what we did Wednesday and Thursday, aside from delicious lunches and dinners, but all day Friday was occupied here by the plumber, fixing a few things and installing others.

Wednesday night we watched Julian Fellowes' "Gosford Park" movie. Thursday night we tried to watch the 1996 "Hamlet" with Kenneth Branagh and Kate Winslett, but it was just too hysterical to watch all the way through. It was four hours long, and if Branagh had talked slower, it would probably have stretched to six hours. We watched about two hours of it.

I ought to have spent the weekend doing manual labor around the house, and letting my brain recover, but the manuscript is sort of an obsession. Is it enough to acknowledge prior publications, or do I have to ask permission of some of them?

Ring Lardner was right. "Riting is a nag."
*
I made a meatloaf yesterday, and I'm going to make a corn pudding and a salad, for my late lunch or early dinner today. As soon as I feel like standing up.
***
Lewis Carroll's stanza actually goes like this:

Yet what are all such gaieties to me
  Whose thoughts are full of indices and surds?
x² + 7x + 53
        = 11 / 3.

I'm My Own Grandpa

Paw Paw (Reed Roe Ramey) tolerated animals most of the time, and at other times he came close to abusing them because they wanted to climb on him and lick his face and scratch his arms. There was something about him that made animals think he belonged to them. Maybe it was because he was Native American (or Irish, as the case may be). Maybe it was a scent. Whatever it was, I've got it.

I've got two geriatric animals in the house who only know one thing: That I won't put them out in the rain, and that I will feed them two or three times a day. And a white cat sitting on the porch who knows that I will feed him if he hangs around long enough.

There are so many things I should be doing (that's a line from my poem "Cleopatra"). But by the time I feed all the animals multiple times a day, and worry that the squirrels, chipmunks and birds might not be able to find water, the day is practically over. The quilt is still not hemmed or bound. The kitchen cabinets are still not scrubbed. The basement is still a mess. My bedroom is still dangerously cluttered. When you're 156 years old, going on 158, there are only so many things you can worry about in a day.

Maybe that's why Paw Paw spent so much summer time leaning against the mulberry tree and whittling, and so much winter time sitting in a rocking chair in front of the fireplace. He had a lot of animals to worry about, not to mention kids and things. Worrying takes a lot of time.

Whew!

I don't know how to pronounce that word, but it sure expresses the way I feel. I've put in four hours a day this week, creating a manuscript of my poems for publication. Just now finished it, and my vision is temporarily dimmed by eyestrain. The document consists of ninety-eight poems, and is 105 pages long including acknowledgments, etc. I'll probably publish it under my Rowan Wood Press imprint, and am thinking of AlphaGraphics in Birmingham for a printer.

Sleep really does "knit up the raveled sleeve of care." I just woke up after I-don't-know-how-many hours of sleeping, and I feel like a new woman. Funny, I still look like the old one.

Yesterday we had a great Labor Day gathering here: my two sisters and two of my nieces, and great-nephew Reed. And Gretchen. And me. Good food, good talk. I love my family.

After everyone left, I filled up the dishwasher and slept most of the time since then.

"I Hope I'll Know It When I Get There"

I dreamed I was waiting for the traffic light to change so I could cross 8th Street. Some kids ran across, so I started across but glanced up at the light and it hadn't changed. By that time I was out in the intersection, and as I stepped back on the curb, Paul B. next to me frowned at me. Then the light changed and we all crossed 8th Street.

There, Randall from UAB joined the crowd waiting to cross the Parkway, but Randall went across against the light. I had sense enough to watch and wait for the light to change, then I crossed the Parkway, to the corner where people were waiting to cross 8th Street.

When the light changed, I crossed 8th Street and woke up, as I stood on the corner waiting to cross the Parkway.

***

Yesterday I bought a whole bunch of groceries, as I've invited everybody here for hot dogs and stuff tomorrow (Labor Day). Today I got an email from Jed; he has a bad summer cold, so he probably won't be able to come over tomorrow. I'm pretty sure Susan and Andy are coming, but haven't heard from anybody else. I may be eating hot dogs for the next month or so. Good thing that's my favorite food.

Gilding the Lily

 

Ars Poetica by Archibald Macleish (1892-1982)

A poem should be palpable and mute

As a globed fruit,

 

Dumb

As old medallions to the thumb,

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone

Of casement ledges where the moss has grown—

A poem should be wordless   

As the flight of birds.

                         *               

A poem should be motionless in time   

As the moon climbs,

Leaving, as the moon releases

Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,   

Memory by memory the mind—

A poem should be motionless in time   

As the moon climbs.

                         *               

A poem should be equal to:

Not true.

For all the history of grief

An empty doorway and a maple leaf.

For love

The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea—

 

A poem should not mean   

But be.

 

***

What brought that on? Trying to rewrite some of my poems that don't quite work. Very hard to do, as in its own way, each one seems complete, and dares me to mess with it.

 

***

 

Some kind of plantain? I haven't found it in the Ala. Wildflowers book.

My Son the Thinker

Email from Jed: "Hey Mom! I've been thinking about your TV. There's one more thing we can try to fix the remote control. . . . Remember when your printer was broke, and fixed it by unplugging it for a while? If you tried that with the TV, maybe that would fix the remote control problem...."

Reply by me: "By gosh, you're almost as smart as me. Maybe just a tad smarter. It worked."

Aesthetically Embarrassing Story

Once when I was very young, I fell in love at my doctor. Oh, he was ruggedly handsome, sort of like one of those dark western actors. He was married, of course, so I stifled the emotion all possible. Then one day, in church, I saw him with his wife and little daughter. The wife was rather good-looking, but the child looked exactly like her father. That was the only really plug-ugly child I had ever seen, before or since, and immediately my warmth toward the doctor froze over and dried up.

In addition to all his other qualities, Mr. Cage made beautiful children.

Week In Review

Jed came over Sunday, and we spent the next three days "supervising" the work in the kitchen: new faucets, cooktop and ovens. The dishwasher still sits in its crate, to be installed today, as some repairs had to be made to the floor and wiring under the old washer. Jed went back to Atlanta Wednesday afternoon, but I think he'll be back again this weekend. The new appliances are shiny white and beautiful, accentuating the shabby appearance of everything else in the kitchen. But all that will change eventually.

I slept four or five hours last night, then lay awake for an hour. Finally rose up, made coffee, and finished reading the last hundred pages of Master and Commander. If I could write like Patrick O'Brian, I'd feel as rich as old Jay Gould.

Also, last night Ramey sent her latest work on the sequel to Sweet Music On Moonlight Ridge by email, another good read.

Cesar

I read online that three years ago, Cesar Millan's life hit a bunch of bad snags. His favorite pit bull Daddy died, his wife asked him for a divorce, and his two sons blamed him for breakup of the marriage. Cesar went into a severe depression and tried to take his life by OD-ing on pills. But now he's back and has a new show. I hope he continues to do well.

Old Notes

My dad was the only person who liked to hear me play the piano. He didn't care much for the Moonlight Sonata, Clair de Lune or the Chopin preludes, but he liked the hymns I would play by ear. Many times I have searched the phone directory and the internet, hoping I could rent a piano, but nothing ever comes of it.

I think it's time I forgave my mother for giving away or lending our piano to someone whose house subsequently burned down. Mama probably had reasons that I can't imagine, or don't want to.

The man is coming Monday morning to install the new kitchen appliances. I would give them all for a plain old piano, even one with a couple of dead keys.
*
On the other hand, it would probably be just another way to waste time.

An Old Poem

Winter At the Inn

My merry muse departs, with all her train
of sweet beguilers. Fare you well, O joys
and gentle smiles, brave banisher of pain
stout laughter, all you valiant natural foes
of this old man Despair. Come back in spring,
and I will entertain you with the crumbs
this grimmer guest, who cannot smile or sing,
may overlook; and, when the summer comes,
we'll turn him out, we'll laugh him off the place--
Together we can do it, you and I--
Alone I am no match for him; his face
defies me to evict him. With a sigh,
spreading his bed of spikes, he takes his rest,
as if it were his house, and I the guest.

By JRC

Hero

Gretchen is a pretty little dog of the Jack Russell persuasion. She lives with Ramey and India up on the hill, but she visits here almost every day, and sometimes she spends the night. This morning she took a walk outside, and encountered three trespassers.

A pit bull and two little dogs, looked like curly-haired dachshunds, had wandered into my yard. The big dog was dragging a leash, actually a piece of rubber hose or something similar, about three yards long. Gretchen ran them out of the front yard, and the little dogs hung around the periphery. But the pit bull ran to the back patio and got his leash wrapped around the deck stairs. I had to go and untangle him before he and his two little companions would leave the area, with Gretchen hot on their trail. She made sure they were all off the property.

The old pit bull looked at me and grinned when I got him loose from the stairs, and none of them acted aggressive toward me or Gretchen. Those were three beautiful dogs, and I hope they go home or their owner finds them soon. I'm sort of cautious about dogs I don't know, so I didn't get close enough to look at their tags.

*

Yesterday I finished quilting the border of my leaf quilt. Now all I have to do is trim and bind the edges; hope I get it done sometime this year.

Also yesterday I sent a bunch of poems to Negative Capability Press.

Birthday Bash

Had a good time yesterday at Ramey's birthday gathering. Today I've had a busy morning, packing and mailing a book and--and--well, I did something else. Two things in one day is a pretty good record.

I only have one little measly new poem to read at tonight's poetry group meeting.

Thursday will be August first, and then I'll send Ms. Walker a bunch of poems to consider for making me a book. I've always dreamed of being a book.

Sonnet 55

 

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone besmear'd with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. 

 

*

We don't know whom he was writing to or about. I like to think it was himself; it's truer of him than of any of his contemporaries.

Oxford & Byron, by Stephanie Hopkins Hughes

This book points out the incredible similarities in the lives of Lord Byron and of Shakespeare (Edward De Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford). And the final, fateful difference that affected posterity's assessment of these two prodigies of English literature.

The difference was that Byron suffered (literally) early fame and an early death. While Oxford's great works were denied any sort of fame in connection with himself, throughout a comparatively long life of hiding his identity and perfecting his works.

"Until Thomas Looney unearthed Oxford, nothing at all was known about the author of Shakespeare, while Byron was one of the most highly publicized writers who ever lived." And, "Oxford and Byron were Gullivers in a land of Lilliputians." -- Hughes

Of Oxford's protagonist Biron, in Love's Labour's Lost, it was said, "Biron they call him, but a merrier man/ Within the limit of becoming mirth,/ I never spent an hour's talk withal./ His eye begets occasion for his wit."

Byron's family name was originally Biron, of Norman French origin. His first mistress was the wife of Lord Harley, a late earl of Oxford. Byron's last mistress wrote of him, "When he laughed the very air around him appeared to laugh."

Hughes' small book is filled with paragraph after paragraph--hundreds--of coincidences and similarities in the lives of these two poets and playwrights.

It's almost as if Byron's life was a morality lesson for Oxford, showing what might have been Shakespeare's reputation, had his early, unperfected writing brought him fame.

Edward De Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford, 1550-1604
George Gordon, Lord Byron, 1788-1824

I'd rather be in Philadelphia.

One of those days when I can't stand anything. So I might as well spend it cleaning.

Beautiful song from Shakespeare

O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
Oh, stay and hear--your true love's coming
that can sing both high and low!

Trip no further, pretty sweeting--
Journeys end in lovers' meeting,
every wise man's son doth know!

Lewis & Clark

Last week I watched Part 1 of the PBS film "The Journey Of the Corps Of Discovery," written by Dayton Duncan. Last night I watched Part 2. Of course, it was mostly scenery and pictures of Indians, Lewis, Clark and Jefferson, but it was narrated by several writers including Duncan, Stephen Ambrose, and William Least Heat-Moon.

The film was produced by Duncan and Ken Burns in 1997, but I hadn't seen it before. I had read Ambrose's book. Anything about the expedition is marred for me by knowing that it must end with Lewis' shooting himself. Only some sources say that he may have been murdered. Either way, he suffered terrible depression, and it's a sad denouement to the story.

Another bothersome fact was that William Clark took his slave called York on the trip. There were about 40 members of the expedition, and they lost only one man who died of a disease early in the journey. In the end, every man was given large plots of land and other valuables. Except York. York got nothing. Years later, Clark did grudgingly give him his freedom.

On several occasions, Sacajawea and other Indian women saved the explorers from suspicious native Americans. There really was a Nez Perce chief named Twisted Hair, which reminded me of a book I had read based on the Twisted-Hair-storyteller legend. In the book, a Twisted Hair wandered all over the West telling the Indians that the end of the world was coming. Of course, he meant the white men, the end of the Indians' world.

Satterfield Ghosts

I woke up with a theory about the ghosts in the Hammond's Camp house. At the time all those phenomena were phenoming, Lawrence had a job, so Mary and Alfred had to be teenagers. It could have been a simple case of poltergeists. If ever any teenagers could cause dippers to move around in waterbuckets, or invisible animals to fall from the ceiling, or women to scream in the attic and whisper under the furniture, or mirrors to become opaque--can't you imagine it was these two little scoundrels?

Good theory, except that it doesn't say why, years later, Ginger dog wouldn't go near the house farther than the edge of the yard, and would sit there growling. Or why as a toddler I was trying to take a nap in the front room, and suddenly was frozen with fear.

Cabin Fever

Well, I'm housebound today. Yesterday, I waited and waited for the Lowe's man to come and measure for the new appliances. Finally skipped out for a few minutes to go to the post office, and he phoned while I was gone. When I got home, I called, explained, and asked if he could come back. No, he said, it would be tomorrow or Friday, and he'd call and let me know when.

So I dare not leave the house again. Out of cat food. Out of milk. Why didn't I get them yesterday? I was in a hurry to get back in case the Lowe's person called.

I've been thinking about foramina, the holes in bones and organs that allow all parts of the body to communicate with each other. If clouds, water, plants, babies, don't convince us of Divinity, we should think about foramina.

The Good, the Bad, and the Undecided

The Good: In spite of having a lot of pain, Sister Susan hosted a great Fourth Of July family celebration at the Yellow House, Thursday afternoon. Jesse and Jed and we three "weird sisters" gathered around a very festive table. Angela and India didn't show; neither did Buffy and her bunch. We're going to have to talk to those girls.

The Dog-In-the-Manger Dept.: In 2012, I won six poetry awards at the Alabama Writers Conclave in Fairhope, Alabama, including a first, a second, and two third prizes. But on their website list of the 2012 winners, they only show me as a winner of one honorable mention. Makes you wonder what's the use.

Furthermore, the poem I entered in the 2013 Alabama State Poetry Society contest didn't win anything, which gripes my innards.

To Go Or Not To Go: Ms. Sue W. of Negative Capability Press in Mobile, Alabama, has offered to look at some of my poems with a view to publishing a book of them. She said if I attend the AWC meeting in Fairhope next week, we'll talk about it, but if I don't go, I can send her "ten or twelve" poems in August. Jed has generously offered to drive us down there Friday, but I can't decide whether or no.

Thinking of the recent poetry books Neg. Cap. has published for Joe and Barry and others, I wonder if a book of my "ten or twelve" little cockeyed poems would even be noticed.

If I had a desk with a drawer that locked, I think I would just lock all five or six hundred of them in the drawer, a la Emily Dickinson, and eventually die unpublished. And if posterity didn't find them, it's their loss.

Anyway, we'll probably go to Fairhope.

Someday I'll Learn

. . . not to leave the hard stuff till the last minute. I've cleaned all afternoon, and now I'm taking a break until I can straighten up.

I was hoping the books I ordered would arrive today, but they didn't. One was Loving Frank by Nancy Horan, about F.L. Wright. And the other was something about Shakespeare by Charlton Ogburn, that I haven't seen before.

The weatherman says rain and thunderstorms for the foreseeable future. Hope we have some calm spells on the Fourth/GMR Birthday. Daddy used to sing, "I'm the Yankee Doodle Dandy, a Yankee Doodle kind of guy, a real live nephew of my Uncle Sam, born on the fourth of July!"

 

*

I went to the store, and coming back, I'm doing 35 in a 25, and a guy who's tail-gating passes me. Some people have no respect for the law.

Some Progress

 

I feel pretty good about my dining room,

 

 

sort of good about my office. It's better than it was.

 

*

 

Today, I aim to feel a lot better about my kitchen. I just have to pretend that I'm a young chick of less than a hundred years old, and get back to work.

 

When I'm around people, I can smile and act more or less normal. Guess I need to be around people more. Solitary, I'm more like an animal. Like Mo. Like the towhee, trying to get through something solid. When I'm around people, I can act like one of them, even if I'm not.

I Hate It When That Happens

Just occasionally, I'll try to watch a late movie, and keep dropping off asleep in my chair. Then get up and go to bed and lie there for a couple of hours, waiting to go to sleep. Finally doze for a few minutes, then wake for another hour or so. When the first dim daylight started peeping through the blinds this morning, I just gave up, got up and made a mug of coffee.

Of course I'll be sleepy by noon, and will fall asleep on the couch, and another night will probably be messed up. But maybe not.

Sorta lop-sided

Mr. Towhee has lost his left tail feather.

Then comes a bird the likes of which I've never seen before. Medium size. Dark gray above, lighter underneath, with a big orange beak like a cardinal, and light ivory-colored feet. Looks like he has a ruff around his neck, but that may be just a disarrangement of feathers.

Would I give $10 for a Coke?

It was my first thought, but I would not really give ten dollars for a Coca-Cola. If I wanted one that badly, I'd get dressed and go to the store, where I could get a whole bunch of Cokes for ten dollars. But when I've slept nearly 12 hours, I want something bubbly, as Cliff Huxstable said.

Seems like the earlier I go to bed, the later I sleep in the morning.

There are a couple of projects that I really want to finish this year. A book of my prize poems. Several quilt tops that need quilting.

Autumn leaf
Basket
Log cabin (2)
Hands all around
Christmas star
Jacob's ladder (2)

I think I'll get dressed and go to the store.

*

The clouds are like snow piled all the way around the horizon. The sky in the middle is so blue and the sun so bright, it makes you want to get up there, get up there! A sky like that made me write my poem "Splendor Before a Storm." And it reminds me, maybe not yet appropriately, of Stevenson's "Requiem."

Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie;
Glad did I live, and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse ye grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.

 

Guess he was trying to get a better view of that super moon.

The Uglies

I guess I've wasted the morning shopping for clothes online. There used to be such good-looking women's clothes, but now they're very hard to find if you're short and medium-sized. Or any size, for that matter. Even the jeans you can't trust. Even LLBean is not what it used to be.

Maybe it's time to start dressing Native American style. They look sort of hot for summer.

No, today isn't my birthday.

But this is the best birthday card I've ever received--about the best one I've ever seen. It was from Jed, a long time ago. I found it yesterday when I was filling up a trash bag in the office with stuff I can do without. This card I can't do without.

Today, So Far...

I'm almost proud of myself. Before noon, I had fed all the beasts, watered the plants, bathed and dressed, and went and got and brought home and lugged upstairs and put away the groceries.

I've adopted Jed's five-day poster, and hope I can gradually slide into the mode of doing four hours of work every weekday. Does my first paragraph count as work? Commonsense says no, but my back says yes.

According to my poster, Wednesday is living/dining room/porches cleaning day. I think this is Wednesday.

Revisiting Lewis Carroll

You Are Old, Father William

 

"You are old, Father William," the young man said

"And should take care in all that you do;

And yet you defiantly stand on your head--

What the hell is the matter with you?"

Three Notes and a Falling Trill

I dreamed we had bought or rented a house in England. By "we," I mean Mama, Daddy, the girls and me. It was an ugly house but very big and square, sort of rusty-looking brick, and it sat in a field facing banks that looked as if they had been flooded many times. But I was thrilled that we had a real house. I kept hearing this bird call, and I said to Mama, "That's a meadowlark!."

Then I thought to myself something like, "You don't know a meadowlark call from a fog horn. The only bird call you can identify is a crow."

 

*

A tranquil day in the neighborhood:

 

Gretchen with her head jammed against the arm of the sofa;

 

Mo curled up in the litter pan. He has a blanket and a beach towel to sleep on, but this is his choice, clean or dirty.

Don't Cry For Me, Argentina

Just want to go on record, stating that I know my condition--an old hag puttering about a cluttered house, trying to cope with the mess and the animals and still get SOMETHING DONE! It's all there in my head, but my back, legs and hands lose a little bit of headway every day.

Still, something remains, at least in my head. I accomplished something, though we don't yet know what.

I wanted to act. They didn't even laugh. But I did make a big splash as Camilla Ann Dusenberry in "Quit Your Kidding," our senior class play at Leeds High School.

I wasn't born with the ability to dance, but took several years of instruction at Arthur Murray's and in college PE classes. It did nothing for my dancing ability but probably was good for my health.

I wanted to sing, and went around trying to imitate Eddy Arnold and Marian Anderson. In Montgomery they did let me sing in the choir. Once or twice.

I was never pretty like others in the family, but a few ambitious males called me beautiful. The true significance of that emerges these days when, on television shows, even fat women who dress like Green Berets are called beautiful.

But "that's all shove be'ind me, long ago and far away." I'm not still young inside. I'm ooooold, all over, inside and out. And wouldn't have it any other way. Youth didn't seem to do much for me except to get me here. So welcome, octogenarianism, if I make it a couple more years.

". . . And this grey spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought." -- Tennyson, "Ulysses"

My Choice For Best Movie

Searching for Bobby Fischer, 1993

I'm not a chess player--too dumb or impatient or something. But this has to be one of the top films of all time, in my opinion. It's full of stars. Besides Max Pomeranc (pronounced Pomerantz), who was a real child chess player, as Josh Waitzkin, it stars Joe Mantegna, Joan Allen, Ben Kingsley, Laurence Fishburne, Tony Shaloub, the real Bruce Pandolfini, members of the real Waitzkin family, William H. Macy, and hosts of champion and amateur chess players. Bobby Fischer complained that he didn't make a thin dime out of this movie, which is hard to believe, as several film clips of him were used.

When I can't think of a single other thing in the house to make me feel better, I watch this movie.

Feeling Rather Smart

I had lunch at Cracker Barrel, then shopped at Walmart. Not a very classy agenda, but I had to get away from this house and find out if I was still human. All the other humans I encountered were nice to me, so I guess I fit in okay.

For the remains of the day, I'm going to let everything go and work on my story.

A Shot In the Arm

Well, I'm in a better mood. I've written two pages of a short story, and I think I'm going to like it. A post on Facebook reminded me of the time Bonnie and I were walking home from school and saw a "dead man" lying in the woods.

If I can just keep the momentum going in my head, maybe I can get some cleaning done around here. I think better when I'm moving and sort of breathing through my mouth.

Trash

When you're old and you've already toted out at least 14,000 bags of trash in your lifetime, you get the feeling that the job will never be done but that you've done your share. Every time you empty a waste-paper basket or the kitchen garbage can, it's deja vu all over again, as some sage remarked.

Deja Vu All Over Again

In 80 years, I estimate
14,000 bags of trash
I've gathered up and carried out
of this or that establishment.

In retrospect, I'd like to state,
if I were paid one dollar cash
for every bag, I have no doubt
that such reward or settlement

would ease the sad predicament
my finances have reached of late.
But history tells me: toting trash
may be what life is all about.

By JRC 06/01/2013