On not being prepared to “be sick”

 

by Pat Laster

 

                “I’m NEVER sick,” I often boasted, knocking on the nearest wood—or my head--especially after others went on about their troubles.

After last Saturday, I can no longer brag. At the last contest announcement—the one-thousand dollar prize from the Sybil Nash Abrams family trust—of our Poets Roundtable of Arkansas's National Poetry Day meeting--which our branch hosted--I felt a fullness in my stomach, which soon turned into knowledge that I was about to (ahem) “be sick.”

By the time I zigzagged around the poets preparing to leave and reached the bathroom’s paper-towel garbage bag … there soon was ‘way more than used paper-towel litter therein.

I’ll spare you the details even though our speaker for the day urged us to “go deep,” “take chances” while using active verbs and specifics.

I cleaned up the area as well as I could, and then headed out the back door of the hall toward the safety of my Taurus. I drove the five miles to Couchwood. My overnight guest had already left with her group for the Ozarks.

At home, I immediately turned on the firelogs, warmed my rice-filled neckpiece and stretched out on the sofa. Though wrapped in a fleecy blanket, I had chills all that restless hour.

Both phones rang, but I didn’t dare move. I figured folks were checking on me—and, sure enough, they were, for which I am grateful.

What does one who is never sick do when (s)he becomes “sick.” I thought of Pepto-Bismol, Kaopectate, and antacids.

            I beamed a flashlight into the under-the-bathroom-sink cabinet and discovered a bottle of Maalox. Aha!

Oh, dear. We’d moved to Couchwood in June of 06, and the expiration date was “12/06.” I took a dose anyway from the previously unopened bottle, and soon, the remainder of my stomach contents came up. I’ve been OK since.

 BTW, the Maalox went into the topsoil of this rocky hill. Note to self: Next time at the pharmacy, get a bottle of antacid with a far-in-the-future expiration date.

I think the episode was caused by stress and anxiety. My friends are not so sure. But researching, I find that indeed it may be so. To wit:

For a week before the meeting—a guest was overnighting—I checked off in my head all the things I had to do beforehand. I copied and folded the programs, I cleaned—slowly—each area where my guest would be, I gathered information for the memorial-to-the-poets-who-had-died and typed most of the presentation.

The final thrust on the last day included vacuuming --a hard-enough job with Mom’s old Electrolux—and finishing my speech. No time for a nap, but by the time Diane arrived, I had rested from my labors; my house was as spotless as it would ever get as long as I lived here.

We ate in, retired early, but I didn’t get to sleep until the wee hours. She said it took her six minutes to summon sleep. Next morning, we were up early, breakfasted and arrived at the meeting site early to “set up.”

A good meeting ensued: my speech was well received, catered lunch of bar-b-q was delicious, the awards of 23 contests called out and bestowed.

If it wasn’t stress and anxiety, why did the incident happen at exactly the last thing on the program?

c 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press

Have other presidential campaigns seen such shenanigans?

Words said about or to presidents of the past

by Pat Laster

 

                Ever wonder if all the name-calling, mud-slinging, false-claims-accusations of this presidential campaign and even during a regular term is a modern phenomenon? Indeed not.

              Dean Acheson, Secretary of State under President Truman said in June, 1952, on the presidential candidacy of Dwight D. Eisenhower:

           “I doubt very much if a man whose main literary interests were in works by Mr. Zane Grey, admirable as they may be, is particularly well-equipped to be chief executive of this country, particularly where Indian affairs are concerned.”

             Abigail Adams, wife of John Adams in a letter to her husband in 1777 wrote:

“In the new code of laws which I suppose it will be necessary for you to make, I desire you would remember the ladies and be more generous and favorable to them than your ancestors.

Do not put such unlimited power into the hands of husbands. Remember, all men would be tyrants if they could. If particular care and attention is not paid to the ladies, we are determined to foment a rebellion, and will not hold ourselves bound by any laws in which we have no voice or representation.”

Henry Adams, historian, from The Education of Henry Adams, 1906 opined:

“That, two thousand years after Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar, a man like Grant should be called—and should actually and truly be—the highest product of the most advanced society, made evolution ludicrous. One must be as commonplace as Grant’s own commonplaces to maintain such an absurdity. The progress of evolution from President Washington to President Grant, was alone evidence enough to upset Darwin.”

              Nicholas Biddle, banker, said in 1831 about President Jackson soon after Jackson’s attack on the Bank of the United States, which Biddle headed: 

“This worthy President thinks that because he has scalped Indians and imprisoned judges, he is to have his way with the Bank. He is mistaken.”

Ambrose Bierce, writer and wit, in The Devil's Dictionary (1881-1911) said:

“Presidency, n. The greased pig in the field game of American politics.”

            Daniel J. Boorstin, historian, wrote in The Image, 1962:

“Our most admired national heroes—Franklin, Washington, and Lincoln—are generally supposed to possess the ‘common touch.’ We revere them, not because they possess charisma, divine favor, a grace or talent granted them by God, but because they embody popular virtues.We admire them, not because they reveal God, but because they reveal and elevate ourselves.”

           John Branch, senator from North Carolina and secretary of the navy (sic) under President Andrew  Jackson, said in a letter to him in 1828:

“If elected, which I trust in God you will be, you will owe your election to the people, Yes Sir, to the unbiased unbought suffrages of the independent, grateful yeomanry of this country.

“You will come into the Executive chair untrammeled, free to pursue the dictates of your own judgment.”

             The following accolade by Heywood Broun, journalist, calls FDR

“The best newspaperman who has ever been President of the United States.”

             Roscoe Conkling, senator from New York and a corporation lawyer, is supposed to have said this in 1883:

 “I have but one annoyance with the administration of President (Chester) Arthur, and this is, that, in contrast with it, the Administration of Hayes becomes respectable, if not heroic.”

Pat Laster here: Times haven’t changed much regarding presidential politics, have they?

NOTE: Information from THE MORROW BOOK OF QUOTATIONS IN AMERICAN HISTORY by Joseph R. Conlin (Wm Morrow & Co. Inc., 1984). Regarding copyright, this book is also available for reading online.            #

c 2012 as a column and blog by Pat Laster dba lovepat press

 

Yes, Virginia, there was a Verna Lee Hinegardner

by Pat Laster

 

                She was Arkansas's Poet Laureate for many years. She lived in Hot Springs, Arkansas a long time before she had to move closer to her daughter in Conway. As she aged, she needed more help than her daughter and son-in-law could give--they were OTR truck drivers--so she moved to a nursing facility.

                After we heard she'd died, we waited and waited for an obituary, but one never appeared in the state paper. Then we heard from another poet in Conway who talked with her nephew that she wanted no obit, no services, nothing except cremation. A poet who knew her well said, “It’s as though she never lived.”

                But another poet had the forethought to check online all the funeral homes in Conway. Sure enough, he found a long obit and a nice picture. You can find it at www.rollerfuneralhomes.com. (Conway AR) I’d advise you to print or save a copy to your desktop or documents.

                After I heard of her death, Virginia, I found the three poetry books of hers, and as I sat at the computer, I read through all one-hundred-twelve of her poems in The Music Grows Louder, published in 1983 when she was 64.  They were numbered with Roman numerals, not titles.

                This book was dedicated to “Litchfield (Illinois) Community High School, Class of 1936”—that’s the year I was born, Virginia—and to 6 other entities, one of whom was: “to those who might enjoy a nostalgic glance at farm life in depression days.” That was me.

                She was a Linxwiler by birth, with older and younger siblings, and in one of her poems she expressed the hope that when she married, she would have a simple name. Not to be; she married “Pete” Hinegardner. Can’t you just see the wedding announcement: “Hinegardner – Linxwiler”?

                A great gift of Verna Lee’s is her autograph on my copy of her latest book, Mosaic,  published in 2011 when she was 92. In wobbly script, she wrote “For Pat Laster/ my poet-friend,/ Verna Lee Hinegardner.” I read this volume that summer in Florida and wrote several poems that were inspired by hers.

                Keep your eyes open, Virginia, for her poetry books in flea markets and used-book library sales. Look for these titles: Magic Moments, The Ageless Heart, Mud and Music, One Green Leaf, Seven Ages of Golf (For Women), Life is a Poem, My Ships Will Sail, Christmas is a Medley, Hearts of the South, People Poetry, and I Own One Star, along with the other two I’ve mentioned.

                Verna Lee invented the “Minute” poetry pattern. It has 60 syllables in particular line lengths and rhyme schemes. She told of asking her husband what she should name it, and after describing it to him, he reportedly said, “Why not call it a minute?”

                Here is one of her Minutes, number XXIX from The Music Grows Louder. [I could not get the formatting correct in this post. Slashes mean a new line.]

"This year it was my turn to pray/ Thanksgiving Day. /Each head was bowed. /I felt so proud/
that all my relatives were near /--all home—all here/
so proud that I /began to cry'
and could not speak my gratitude /for love and food./
I stuttered then, /‘Thanks, God. Amen.’”

                And I add, “Thanks, God, for Verna Lee’s life. May we never forget her, even though at times she was hard to love, according to some who knew her well. None of your children deserves to leave this world without some mention of her and her contribution to your creation. Amen.”

c 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press

Authors’ Fair –gains and losses

by Pat Laster

 

                A writer/friend sort of pooh-poohed those at signings who decorated their tables and themselves to match the color of their book covers. Yet, because a writers’ newsletter recently suggested doing just that, that’s exactly what I did. Even to the coffee cup.

                This event was held at the Faulkner County Library in Conway last Saturday. I had asked the librarian to buy both a hardback and softback copy of my book. Instead of answering yea or nay, she invited me to an Authors’ Fair from one till five-- part of the larger arts-doings in the town.

                I gathered things in all shades of blue to match the vibrant patterned cloth I’d had for ages, even a candy dish and colored Hershey’s kisses that included blue ones. Of the 18 authors, three of us had decorative cloths, two of us had candies, one of us had a video going all four hours and one had a replica of a skull for her book subtitled A Zombie’s Memoir.

                We were arranged in two sides of a wide space at the back of the library; a hall intersected leading farther down into the room where computer stations were installed. The librarian-in-charge changed her mind and instead of arranging us from front to back in the order we accepted—which would but me near the back—she decided to put all the college/ university people on one side and “the real world” folks on the other.

                Colleague Freeda and I were the first tables one could see coming down the long hall from the entrance of the library. Our names were pinned on the front of the black cloth provided, and book-cover posters on easels stood on our tables.

                John had an elegant and complete display for his $45, very-detailed book on the USS Independence. He wore a T-shirt with the information.

                Will was hawking his In Yankee Doodle’s Pocket: The Myth, Magic and Politics of Money in Early America.

                Linda and Adrienne and their children were selling various books self-published by CreateSpace “for free.” Except that they had to pay “a little bit” for each copy they bought.

                Carroll, next to us, had several books for sale, plus information about his publishing company.

                Except for a Mr. Colclasure, that included the “real world” people.

                Across the wall-less hall were UCA and Hendrix folks--one originally from England, one from Minnesota, and one from Hot Springs. Sherry and I traded hardback copies of our books, and I bought one of Mark’s poetry volumes for $5.

                Mark had promised his creative-writing students extra credit if they showed up, and several of them did. Professor and students fist-bumped when the latter arrived.

                Poor publicity was cited by the few folks who happened to make it down the length of the huge room. Our loss. And theirs.

                The gains were learning new folks, networking among ourselves, hearing their stories, and being seen. Perhaps a seed for a future purchase was planted when the few who came by, stopped, looked at back covers, took bookmarks and cards then moved on.

                Not much money changed hands; I gave two books to the library since she didn’t answer my request for a purchase. In return, she must provide me with a tax-deductible form. “Remind me,” she said. I certainly will.

Believe it or not, the four hours passed quickly. I would do it again, but I was glad to get home.

c 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press