Graymont Kitchen

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

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

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

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

Time Out

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

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

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

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

I'm not really depressed. Just tired.

Maybe I could get "Mills own Whills."

I didn't write it.

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

Daddy Doll Teaches Chess

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

Little Dolly takes a look at the board.

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

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

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

Bra la la, how the life goes on!

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

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

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

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

Another Guy's Poison

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

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

A New Quilt

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

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

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

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

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

Ars Longa, Angst Longior

One day when I was working for Social Security, I interviewed a guy who was a professor, or some type like that who knows everything. The interview turned into a conversation, and he asked what my hobbies were. I said painting and writing. He said, "The writing doesn't matter. The painting does." Maybe he was right. Maybe I took the wrong road. Maybe the world needed a painting of Walt Whitman instead of a poem about him. Unfortunately, I never saw him close up enough to paint him.

I did try to paint him from a photograph. Got as far as a pencil sketch on the canvas and gave up in disgust with myself.

I think, if I had to paint Walt Whitman, I would just paint some tall grass with a wolf or a coyote gnawing at some carrion. I think that would please Mr. W.

Tuesday

Brought Mo home from the Clinic yesterday. Maybe he's better, but he looks worse than when I took him in. He has chosen the front bathroom for his domain, and won't leave it. When I carried him upstairs to the living room, he ran and jumped up onto the coffee table and sat staring around as if he didn't believe it. But since then, he hardly moves. But he eats every couple of hours and drinks a lot of water, so maybe he'll recover by and by.

I called Dave to come and clean the carpets and kill what fleas are left. Mo's hidey hole seems to be clear of fleas, maybe because he and the beach towel I had him wrapped in are still [I can't think of the word] soaked with flea repellent. So maybe he'll last until Dave has been here on Friday.

Yesterday I petted the stray white cat, and he bit my hand twice so that I had to disinfect and bandage the puncture wounds. I'm done with pets. Finished. I don't ask them to say "thank you" for the food and water and the porch to lie on or under. Just don't injure me, that's all.

Fairhope, Alabama

The winnahs--my baby sister and me! No, that's not Mary Ramey on the right, it just looks like her.

Beautiful fountain in the park beside the Bay.

Beautiful roses.

Beautiful tree.

Beautiful people. Ramey and Jed.

*

Not to mention the beautiful birds--Pelicans, little black birds and their houses up on poles, and the prettiest seagulls in the world, I'll bet. I just couldn't get good photos of them.

*

The event was the spring awards meeting of the Alabama State Poetry Society. I won a first prize, a second prize, two third prizes and two honorable mentions. Ramey won a first prize and an honorable mention. If she had entered more poems, she would have won more--I don't just think so, I know it.

*

My Walt Whitman poem won second prize in its category. It contains the best line I've ever written: "I [Walt Whitman] will give  you antidotes to fear and loneliness."

Lost In Hag Woods

The very next Sunday, assured that the Titanic sinking involved no more of their acquaintances, the family pile into Daddy's treasured automobile and ride out to Graymont. There they find that the only possibly livable part of the house--indeed, the only part they can get inside of--is the south wing. The children have never been to Graymont before, and they are enchanted by it.

"I'm staying here," Dolly declares.

"You can't have my room," says Maybelle Buff-Orpington who greets them in the courtyard.

"We don't need a room," Camilla informs her. "I would live here if I had to sleep under a tree."

"Me, too," says Dolly. Her favorite place around the house is an old weather-scarred, rain-whitened gazebo that's just visible through the trees and undergrowth.

"This is where I'll live," she decides.

"That's my summer house," May claims.

"Mine now," says Dolly.

Maybelle mumbles something cross, and leads Camilla away to see another country wonder.

"Chipmunks," she says. "Did you ever see two chipmunks dancing, Cammie?"

Soon it's time to go home. Mama has settled herself in the car with Peter in her lap, and Daddy calls to the girls. That is, he calls to Camilla, who is talking to May in the courtyard. Dolly is nowhere in sight.

"She's prob'ly still at the gazebo," Camilla says, but they can't find her there.

After going up and down stairs in the south wing, and searching the woods and dark places around the house, they find themselves back at the gazebo. Peter hardly ever cries, but he is tired, hungry and fretful. It occurs to Camilla to call out.

She shouts as loud as she can. "Dolly! Where are you?"

"I'm up here," comes a squeaky little voice from somewhere over their heads. A creaking, grinding sound follows, and the roof of the gazebo slowly rises in the air.

As it turns out, Dolly has found a crank down below that raises the roof, and when one climbs up, it can be moved up and down by pushing and pulling. She loves the inside, that's painted one of her favorite shades of blue.

"How did you get up there?" Daddy demands.

"I just climbed on the rail and shinnied up the pole."

As he is helping her climb down, it never occurs to Daddy to threaten her with punishment. He's wondering if he could still shinny up a pole if such became necessary or desirable.

Getting Ready To Travel

We're going to Fairhope, Alabama on Friday, for the Alabama State Poetry Society spring awards luncheon. So I have to spend today and tomorrow getting ready, as far as possible. Anyone who knows me knows that I hate to travel. I like to have traveled, for something to look back on and feel as if I've done things and been places. But the actual experience is like holding my breath under water until I get back home.

I haven't always been so backwards; I've been all up and down the east coast of the U.S. and parts of the middle west. I've been to Canada, and across the water to England. Flew low enough over Ireland to see how green it is, and to wish I were down there. While I was in traveling mode, I should have gone out west and down to Mexico, and I would feel like I'd seen all of Earth that I was meant to see.

Some of the traveled spots I like to remember are Madison, Wisconsin; Wells Cathedral in England; an oolitic limestone formation near Tuscaloosa, Alabama; Cherokee, North Carolina. I think I could feel at home in Wisconsin. But when I crossed the line back into Alabama, I'd probably dissolve in happy tears, the way I've always done.

At least this weekend, we'll still be in Alabama.

*

The vet said she could give Mo a blood transfusion, and it might make him feel better for a few days. But if his bone marrow isn't making red blood cells, it wouldn't do any good in the long run. They have a calico cat running around the clinic who is their "donor" cat. I worry that maybe the blood types wouldn't match. Do cats have blood types? But she didn't sound optimistic about any treatment for him.

I know one thing: No more pets will enter this house while I'm in it, except to visit and go home elsewhere. Fleas, neither, if I can ever get rid of the ones I've already got.

*

I got antsy and phoned River City Publishing in Montgomery. Talked to a nice guy who said they were down to judging the final few manuscripts entered in the 2011 Fred Bonnie Memorial competition. He took my name and phone number and said he would get someone who knew more to call me. When I told him the title of my manuscript, he said, "Oh, I remember that!"

Poor Mo

Mo the Cat is in the pet clinic, and the vet says "maybe this" and "maybe that." But he's severely anemic, Lord-knows how old, and I don't feel optimistic. We decided to give him another day to start eating and moving around, if he can. So tomorrow, we'll see how he's doing.

*

Dolly found this pretty quilt in an old trunk in the attic, and claimed it for her bed. The girls are admiring it. Camilla hasn't decided whether she wants a quilt or a crocheted spread.

Dolly loves blue, and Camilla likes pink and green, so their room doesn't have a real color scheme. Each one expects to have a room of her own when they move to Graymont, but at present that seems to be only a temporary arrangement. The family will probably move back to their house when the renovations are done, and any extra rooms will be filled with babies.

Panic Attack or Simple Insomnia?

Blam! Pterodactyl Time!

Panic--greater standing mute or screaming?
Is this a death-in-life experience?
Better to lie still or run in circles?
Just now it's hard to tell the difference.

Flee, for your life, the south pole of inertia!
O tremor, shake this form with trembling!
Cliches and proverbs, exercise your power
And bring whatever comfort you can bring!

Tomorrow will be better--That's salvation!
Clutch at that thought with fingers cold as sleet!
There's still a mind that's capable of thinking,
Up there where dawn and dreams and reason meet;

And swirling in this nowhere-scape of shadows,
Familiar landmarks to the vision creep.
Ah, welcome, blessed angel of exhaustion!
With you at last, deliverance and sleep!

By Joanne Cage April 23, 2012

*

Apr. 23, 10:00 PM - I'll work on this poem, trying to clarify what it's about.

A Day To Remember

After spending half an hour on the phone transferring my depression onto my son Jed, I felt so much better that I jumped up, fixed lunch and ate, then cleaned up the house. Well, not completely, but I got a good start.

*

On a cool April afternoon, the family decide they're not up to going out to the Hag Woods to investigate the condition of Graymont house. Having decided to put off that job for another day, they gather in the living room, light the fire, and prepare to listen to Daddy play his violin. He's a pretty good fiddler. Billy Bones has been drafted to accompany him on the piano, because nobody else plays except Dolly who can play "Yankee Doodle" with her right hand, and Daddy doesn't want to play "Yankee Doodle." The servants have lined up in the doorway to listen.

Suddenly Beauty rushes in with a telegram that has just arrived. Everyone freezes. No one knows exactly  what to do. None of them has ever received a telegram before. Finally, Billy suggests that Daddy open it and see what it says.

Daddy does so, then looks around the room, dazed.

"It's--" Daddy clears his throat. "It's from Brother Ned," he says. "He was coming home from England on the RMS Titanic, and the ship sank early this morning. He--he wanted to let us know he's all right, before we heard about the wreck from the [radio or the] newspaper."

[Breaking the stunned silence, Camilla says, "See, Mama? I told you we should buy that radio we saw at Harte's on Saturday!"]

Mama, who hasn't yet fainted, gasps, "I hope no one else we know was on board."

"Thank God Ned's all right," says Billy.

"Somebody run see if the afternoon paper has arrived. I'll go telephone to Mother. Ned doesn't say whether he telegraphed her," Daddy says, and leaves the room.
*
You know, when I look at pictures of my dollhouse, I get the same calm, right feeling that I had while writing Big Baby. Like I'm fulfilled in some way. Go figure.

***

MY MISTAKE: There was no radio except wireless telegraphy until 1920 or later. So Ned didn't mention "the radio," and Camilla didn't regret not buying one at the furniture store.

Complications Ahead

The house has become too crowded for the family. Granny Gray has recently gone on to somewhere else, and surprise! She left Graymont to Daddy, with the condition that he adopt little Maybelle Buff-Orpington and raise her as one of his own children. Sigh.

Mama and Daddy are discussing the move to the country. As long as the subject of the adoption doesn't come up, things are pretty quiet. Peter, Tiny and the teddy bear listen in but have no input to the conversation.

So, as soon as Graymont has been cleaned out and made livable, the family will move over there, and work can begin on the attic. And another bathroom.

(Daddy secretly hopes that some of the antiques at Graymont will be valuable enough to sell and help finance the work on the house.)
*
Something has happened to my blog. Nothing stays the same, except changes to cope with.

It's Always Something

Daddy Doll is contemplating the ceiling in his study, which is sagging. Looks like it's about to fall down. The ceiling fan, he thinks, is probably the only thing holding it up.

Well, he thinks, when the work starts on the attic, they'll just have to repair the ceiling, too. This is what he gets for scrimping (or running out of money) and failing to put up crown molding. He's considering an Art Nouveau chandelier to replace the ceiling fan and light. Daddy gets champagne ideas on his cider budget.

The wall clock hanging over his head is one he calls "Goliath's pocket-watch."

Lucinda is cleaning the study again. It must be spotless, because she spends a lot of time in there. She's not as old as Grandma, but she's several years older than Daddy, and she's awfully fond of him. Daddy secretly thinks she's the only person in the house who understands and appreciates him.

Daddy notices what looks like a ghost peering in through the top left pane of the glass door to the balcony. If you click on the ceiling picture, you can see the "ghost."

"Lucinda, do you see that weird reflection in the glass door?"

Lucinda turns and, glancing at the door, says, "Why, Mr. D., that's not a reflection. It's just a jug of flowers I put on the balcony this morning. I declare, sir, you ought to start wearing your specs, or go get some new ones."

Daddy winces, hearing another cash register ringing. He has lost his old eyeglasses, having refused to wear them on a ribbon around his neck.

Something To Shoot For

My goal is to make every room in my house please me at least as much as my dining room does. Then I'll move away and leave it all.




*






I've been looking at houses to buy if we sell this one. But I've really only seen one that I liked as much, the one Jed and I looked at last week.

My grand-nephew Jesse's grandmother Billie has passed away, and I'm very sad for the family.

Almost Certified

Ever since last Sunday, I've been feeling like a real poet instead of just a pretender. Because someone outside the immediate circle of poets, family and friends posted on FaceBook that I was one of her "favorite poets in all the world." But the euphoria is wearing off, and I realize that what I have to do is "lodge a few poems where they can't be ignored," as Frost said.

So I'm going to start annoying The New Yorker by sending them a group of four poems every month until they give in and publish one. I may have to use a pen name like Hrvak Jroykin or Po Nuyen. And send in my subscription renewal money.

And publish a book of all my prize-winning poems!!!
*
Susan's sister supper yesterday was wonderful. It was just the three of us, and we straightened everything out. Temporarily, at least.
*
There's a mockingbird outside my window, sitting on a holly bush and eating the berries. And turning her head this way every time I whistle.

Tempus fugit, faster and faster

These Brief Days

Life travels with the speed of light;
No sooner Monday than it’s Sunday–
A whole week gone, and it seems like one day!
Why do we name the days that fly
Like racing clouds across the sky?
Calling names won’t slow their flight.
Adam and Eve and all your kin,
This is how you’re paying for original sin.
In the garden–

In the garden,
Morning felt like forever;
Noon was time enough to walk
From the northwest corner of the north forty
To the southeast of the south.
In the garden a girl could grow up
In a single April afternoon
Under the apple blossom sprays, heavy,
Heavy with honey-scented white
And (suspicion being all that ever slept)
When the golden fruit
Weighed down the golden boughs,
Might feast in silver shadows,
Veiled from any troubled gaze.

A gentle comedy, unthinking players!
How could the apple stir our brains
Into the folly of naming these brief days?
We string them together in wilted daisy chains
And set them winding on time’s blurred wheel,
Whirling too fast for us to see
The worm at the core, the serpent at our heel.

By Joanne Cage, October 1979

*
I guess Jed's still in California. I've slept much of the time since he left here on Saturday, to keep from worrying about him. "If God had meant for man to fly," etc.

Susie is giving "Sister Supper" again tonight. I think I'll do that in May. Hope I've got the house in better shape by then.