12 trips to the attic -- with apologies

 

           On the first trip to the attic, I turned the light switch on, and came back to Christmas downstairs.

On the second trip to the attic, I searched and searched and found two green wreaths, and the light switch to guide me back down.

On the third trip to the attic, to find our mother’s box: three pillows, stuffed; two green wreaths, and the light to guide me back down.

On the fourth trip to the attic, to see what else was there:four strings of lights, three pillows-stuffed—two green wreaths,and the light that guided me down.

On the fifth trip to the attic, my legs were getting tired. Five…. Yuletide rugs…, four strings of lights, three pillows (stuffed),two green wreaths, and the light that guided me down.

On the sixth trip to the attic, I spied a Walmart bag: six new ornaments, five Yuletide rugs, four strings of lights, three pillows[stuffed], two green wreaths, and the light that guided me down.

On the seventh trip to the attic, I had to stop and sit. Seven breaths while resting, six new ornaments, five…Yuletide rugs…., four strings of lights,three pillows {stuffed}, two green wreaths, and the light that enlightened the stairs.

On the eighth trip to the attic, I found another sack: eight strands of tinsel, seven breaths while resting, six new ornaments, five… Yuletide rugs…. four strings of lights, three pillows –stuffed—two green wreaths, and the light that ‘lumined my way.

On the ninth trip to the attic, I moved some things around: nine music boxes, eight strands of tinsel, seven breaths while resting, six new ornaments, five…..Yuletide rugs…… four strings of lights, three pillows [full], two green wreaths, and the blessed light that kept me on track.

On the tenth trip to the attic, I looked around the room: ten-year-old tree, nine music boxes, eight strands  of tinsel, seven breaths while resting, six new ornaments, five….. Yuletide rugs…….. four strings of lights, three pillows, stuffed; two green wreaths, and the light that made the trips work.

On the 11^th trip to the attic, my legs were crying out. 11 steps a-waiting, 10-year-old tree, nine music boxes, eight strands of tinsel, seven breaths while resting, six new ornaments, five…. Yuletide rugs……. four strings of lights, three pillows {stuffed}, two green wreaths, and the light shining down from above.

[Huff, puff, huff, puff, take a drink of water, start again.]

On the 12^th trip to the attic, THIS WAS THE FINAL ONE! 12 Christmas tapes [“[Hall-e-lu-jah!”], 11 steps a-waiting [huff, puff], 10-year-old tree [where’s the Goodwill bag?] 9 music boxes [play them all at once!], 8 strands of tinsel, 7 deep breaths, 6 new ornaments, 5…. Yuletide rugs……. 4 strings of lights, 3 down-filled squares, 2 green wreaths……….AND THE LIGHT JESUS GIVES TO US ALL.

May your Christmas day be full of blessings.

Two church programs to ring-and-sing and a Christmas brunch

Imagine these singers with handbells

I’ve had no “company” since the floors were all re-done, so I invited the eight bell ringers to a brunch. Why not? Our Christmas music presentation was December 14 and we wouldn’t be rehearsing until next year?

          You’ve heard that when one part of your house gets a new face (or floor, in this case), it calls for upgrades in other departments? Those’ll have to wait until next year. I’ve tried to repair the ceiling in the living room by hook and by crook, and up until I painted my handiwork, I was satisfied. Not now. All I could do was to hide it under a similar-colored, sheer cloth with push pins and spray glue. Time, time, time! Like reading the newspaper, it took ‘way too much time. I could almost write a BuzzFeed article, “Ten Ways to Waste Your Time Trying to Do It Yourself.” And I may—next year.

         To warm up the kitchen one recent morning, I decided to bake, using the peanut-butter cookie packet, the cornbread muffin box and one of the clipped recipes for pumpkin cake/pumpkin pie cake. I’d freeze the cookies and the pie-cake for the brunch and our family Christmas.

          The kitchen warmed before I started on the third item. And, because there were so many other things to do—do I have a short attention span?—I turned off the oven, loaded and started the dishwasher.

            As in 2013, this year, I toted the top tier of a 3-part, 6-foot, pre-lighted tree from the attic, set it in a fishbowl of marbles. Voila! Centered on a long, narrow table covered to the floor in maroon cloths and placed in front of the east window, it glows with symmetry--and pears.

           The dining table was re-dressed and readied for food. As BFF Dot knows, it’s hard to keep a dining table clear just for dining. It’s happened many times before: papers, notes, calendars, to-do lists got pushed off into a box and shunted under or behind or inside something. Hopefully, in all that clutter, no unpaid bills get lost. It’s possible the box will be forgotten until a deep-cleaning spell next spring—if then.

         In the meantime, two musical “programs” were planned—on the same day: early church at Bryant; late church at Salem. Sis Carolyn and I rang bells in both—she led the latter group, so we rushed out of the first service after we finished our part, then raced to the second venue to reset the chancel from THEIR early service to the traditional Lessons and Carols.

           With 3 bell tables, additional chairs for 3 brass players, the choir director was squeezed behind a bell player and the sopranos. I’m lobbying for a roll-out extension of the chancel for special programs—in both churches.

            But we survived, and after a long, Sunday-afternoon nap, and continued preparations for the bell brunch--which was a barrel of fun--well… here’s my post for this week.

           May we all slow down, breathe deeply and still enjoy the onrush to Christmas.

This 'n That: Random Thoughts in December

 

 

Fun stuff from the newspaper: Heloise answered a reader’s question about “cute postmarks for our Christmas cards.” And she answered:

                “Here’s a short list to pick from: Evergreen, LA 71333; Garland, NC 28441; Hope, MI 48628; Noel, MO 64854; North Pole, NY 12997; Rudolph, OH 43462; and Star, TX 76880.”

“After my long-in-progress novel manuscript is at the publisher, I’ll deal with the ceiling”.—from a Standard column in December of 2009.

Though A Journey of Choice went live in September of 2010, I immediately began—at the complimentary behest of quite a few readers––a sequel.

Here it is, four years and three months later, and that novel is finished. While it is being re-revised by one group, I have extra time to do something to the living room ceiling. As I mentioned in last week’s column, I’m “workin’ on it.”

The Hot Springs Novel Writers weekly critique sessions have been such fun. Bill White is writing a novel based on a true story. We have just finished re-revising Bud Kenney’s travelogue about walking from Arkansas to New England. HSNW is all business, except for anecdotes here and there about family “doings.”

On the other hand, The Central AR Writers (CAW), a group of three (ahem) mature women and one young sprout (she has two young-adult kiddos), meet monthly, each driving an hour to our complimentary meeting room at the Faulkner County Library. Complimentary, because none of us live in that county. The youngest one always showers us with gifts, so the rest of us have begun bringing little fun things—individual packages of crackers, nuts or candy, maybe a knick-knack. Of course, this month, as it’s December, the gift bags will likely be larger and more full. Goodies aren’t the reason we meet, of course. We continue meeting to critique each other’s current submission. All of us are working on another novel. Though my sequel is finished, this group—meeting monthly—hasn’t yet gotten to the end of it like the Hot Springs group has.

The sequel, Her Face in the Glass, will be edited and published by Alderson Press on a CreateSpace platform. It will not be available in hardback, just softback and as an e-book. We’re looking at sometime early in 2015 as the “live” date.

 A Journey of Choice is still available at Amazon and B&N and iUniverse. Oh, and (like John Grisham’s first book was) from the trunk of my Taurus.

Now, I must get to that ceiling. Where is my phone? I promised Dot that when I climbed the ladder, my phone would be in my pocket. Just in case. Oh, wait. I need more spray glue.

                Speaking of waiting, in liturgical churches, this season of Advent is one of waiting and preparation. A time to realign, if necessary—and it usually is--our priorities, our souls, to take stock of our spiritual health. Two of my writer friends have compiled two different booklets with daily Advent meditations. Those readings will be an aid toward the four-week season preceding Christmas.

May your Advent/Waiting/Preparation season be soulful and rejuvenating.

New words & experiences keep us learning & busy

~Google images~

 

 

              Because my two novels are set in the Missouri Ozarks, I “follow” Ozark Highlands of Missouri’s blog. Last week, it discussed how controlled burning practices were not what they should be. In the information was the word “forb.” The blogger apparently presumed his/her readers knew all the terms. I didn’t, so I Bing-ed the word.
 

          “Forb”—herbaceous flowering plants that are not graminoids (grasses, sedges and rushes). Examples of forbs are sunflower, clover, daylily and milkweed. A peek into vegetation ecology.

            Then, there’s the experience I had over the Thanksgiving weekend. Since my daughter’s family would be in the Mississippi deer woods from Wednesday through Saturday, I was fingered to tend their five Black Australorp hens. Again, I had to Bing (alternative to Google) the breed to find the correct spelling. Daughter wasn’t sure, she said.

          Tending her chickens was a piece of cake! All I did was gather the eggs, check on the water bucket, check to see no feet were hung in the wire, go inside, wash the eggs, stick ‘em in the fridge. Feeding/watering the indoor/ outdoor cats—and I was done. Fun.
 

          I love Bill White’s column in this paper, especially when he tells of doing things around the house himself. He and Cupcake get into it at times, don’t they?

          I, too, try to do things around here myself—not because I can’t afford to have it done, but because I like the challenge. Of course, I couldn’t EVER and wouldn’t EVER do re-laying of carpet, re-finishing hardwood floors, or laying tile in the kitchen like I hired done this past summer.

         But the living room ceiling was a different matter, I thought. At two different times, after several days of rain, some of the 70s-era Celotex tiles fell. The original textured plaster (from 1932) painted a light green came into view. Immediately, I knew I would not replace those fallen tiles. Thus began months of intermittent removal of the myriad squares. Then the grasping and twisting of the 40-year-old staples out of the wood strips (1 by 4s) Dad had fastened end to end and nailed through the plaster to the studs in the l-o-n-g room. Every eight inches of ceiling is another parallel set of boards, supposedly added to keep any more of the plaster from falling.

 

            Pulling staples pales in comparison with the prospect of repairing the ceiling where the original plaster fell. The shape of Africa, that hole shows the laths and the old cement between them and spreads under six of the boards. I would need nearly one-half inch of filler––for unlike today’s plaster coating, this stuff is thick. I looked on the internet, gathered some information on materials I would need. I bought a can of mix-it-yourself plaster of paris along with a sponge and spreader. But all that sits as yet untouched.

            I’ve had other ideas about how to repair it without all the aforementioned stuff. Maybe next week I can show what I did. The photo is someone else's ceiling.
 

           Meanwhile, onward in the rush to Christmas.

Writings of the Masters--Thanksgiving

 

 

                AUTUMN SUNSET – by Henry David Thoreau

                “The sun sets on some retired meadow, where no house is visible, with all the glory and splendour that it lavished on cities, and, perchance, as it has never set before—where there is but a solitary marsh-hawk to have his wings gilded by it, or only a musquash looks out from his cabin, and there is some little black-veined brook in the midst of the marsh, just beginning to meander, winding slowly round a decaying stump. We walked in so pure and bright a light, gilding the withered grass and leaves, so softly and serenely bright, I thought I had never bathed in such a golden flood, without a ripple or a murmur to it. The west side of every wood and rising ground gleamed like a boundary of Elysium, and the sun on our backs seemed like a gentle herdsman driving us home at evening.

“So we saunter toward the Holy Land, till one day the sun shall shine more brightly than ever he has done, shall perchance shine into our minds and hearts, and light up our whole lives with a great awakening light, as warm and serene and golden as on a bank-side in autumn.”

 

A PRAYER – by Max Ehrmann

“Let me do my work each day; and if the darkened hours of despair overcome me, may I not forget the strength that comforted me in the desolation of other times.

“May I still remember the bright hours that found me walking over the silent hills of my childhood, or dreaming on the margin of the quiet river, when a light glowed within me, and I promised my early God to have courage amid the tempests of the changing years. Spare me from bitterness and from the sharp passions of unguarded moments. May I not forget that poverty and riches are of the spirit. Though the world know me not, may my thoughts and actions be such as shall keep me friendly with myself.

“Lift my eyes from the earth, and let me not forget the uses of the stars. Forbid that I should judge others lest I condemn myself. Let me not follow the clamor of the world, but walk calmly in my path.

“Give me a few friends who will love me for what I am; and keep ever burning before my vagrant steps the kindly light of hope. And though age and infirmity overtake me, and I come not within sight of the castle of my dreams, teach me still to be thankful for life, and for time’s olden memories that are good and sweet; and may the evening’s twilight find me gentle still.”

--from One Thousand Beautiful Things, compiled by Marjorie Barrows, published in 1947 for Peoples Book Club, INC. Chicago

My wish is that you and yours enjoyed a day of thanks, family, food, friends, freedom and all other blessings which these readings might have evoked. -- PL

RUMOR SOMETIMES BECOMES MYTH

~~PL - 2013~~

 

How many of you have 1300-plus emails still in your computer? I do. One day, I decided to see what was happening in November of past years. I clicked back to November of 2012.                 Several emails evoked a smile, an eye-rolling (and a “delete”), a “good grief!” or some such reaction. One thread was from an across-the-continent relative. I had lately worked the polls with a high school classmate of his. During a lull in the voting, she had asked about him. I told her, and she said she seemed to remember he worked for/ at/ in the Jet Propulsion Lab.                 This was news to me. Unless he’d been keeping secrets all these years. He replied thusly:                 “Surely there’s a Will Rogers quote that fits this moment. (Or was it Mark Twain?) ‘The rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.’ Never worked as scientist or engineer or admin or clerical or host or janitor for JPL. No connection whatsoever. Cannot imagine where such an accusation/ rumor/ report might have originated. Pure pap nonsense.”

I had an idea: Were there any historical rumors that weren’t true, but became told as truth? Here are three.

                Abner Doubleday was a Civil War general and abolitionist who famously ordered the first Union shots in defense of Fort Sumter. But while he had a distinguished military career, Doubleday is more commonly remembered for inventing baseball—even though he did no such thing.

                The story dates back to 1905, when former National League president A.G. Mills headed a commission to investigate the origins of America’s favorite pastime. Based on a letter from a man named Abner Graves, the commission incorrectly concluded that Doubleday had invented baseball in Cooperstown, New York, in 1839. In truth, Doubleday was attending West Point in 1839 and had never claimed any involvement with baseball. Nevertheless, the myth persisted for years, and the Baseball Hall of Fame was even established in Cooperstown on the sport’s mistaken centennial in 1939.

              Lady Godiva is best known for defiantly riding naked through the streets of medieval Coventry to protest the crippling taxes her husband had levied on the townspeople. According to legend, at some point in the 11th century Godiva pressured her powerful husband, Leofric, to reduce the people’s debts. When he mockingly responded that he would only do so when she rode naked on horseback through the town, Godiva called his bluff and galloped into the history books.

               While this story has become the stuff of legend—a tailor who spied on Godiva even inspired the phrase “peeping Tom”—scholars agree that the nude horseback ride probably never happened. Godiva certainly existed, but most histories mention her as simply the wife of an influential nobleman. In fact, the complete Godiva myth didn’t even appear until the 13th century, 200 years after the ride supposedly occurred. The story was later picked up by notable writers like Alfred Lord Tennyson, whose 1842 poem “Godiva” helped cement the tall tale as a historical fact.
 

              One of the most famous stories of Roman decadence concerns Nero, the emperor who blithely “fiddled while Rome burned” during the great fire of 64 A.D. According to some ancient historians, the emperor had ordered his men to start the fire in order to clear space for his new palace. But while Nero was certainly no saint—he reportedly ordered the murder of his own mother during his rise to power—the story of his fiendish fiddling is likely exaggerated.

            While some ancient chroniclers did describe the music-loving emperor as singing while he watched flames consume the city, the historian Tacitus would later denounce these claims as vicious rumors. According to him, Nero was away at Antium during the early stages of the blaze, and upon returning to Rome helped lead rescue and rebuilding efforts and even opened his palace gardens to those who lost their homes. Another strike against the legend: the fiddle wouldn’t be invented for several hundred years. If Nero played any instrument while Rome burned . . . it would most likely have been a cithara, a kind of lyre.            [Information from www.history.com]
 

             Perhaps Mr. Doubleday, Ms Lolita and poor old Nero would have said the same thing as my relative: “Can’t imagine where or how such an accusation/ rumor/ report got started.”



One little nugget has made a stew

No Google images that I'd have for this subject.

 Here's the pic of the failed can opener incident

 

From a regional Arkansas newspaper column, I found this bit of bio about Clementine Hunter, the self-taught folk artist. It caught my eye and ear and mind. Hunter is quoted as saying, “Painting is a lot harder than pickin’ cotton. Cotton’s right there for you to pull off the stalk, but to paint you got to sweat your mind.”
 

I say the same thing goes for writing a novel (in my case), a story, an essay, a poem—“you gotta sweat your mind.”
 

To me, “sweating my mind” means looking up things like how to dance with one in a wheelchair, how to foreshadow a character’s ability to play the fiddle; which youth can play a harmonica; how to approach a returned soldier who’s a widower, especially since the woman’s husband was killed in a non-combat situation.
 

My “mind sweating” allowed me to finish the sequel in a final, 2,000-word chapter. The whoosh of exhalation you heard at 10 p.m. Sunday night was me––finally finished with the first draft. The Hot Springs writers’ group heard it Monday and pronounced it—except for a few things—finished.
 

I Googled (really, Bing-ed) the phrase “sweat my mind,” and the following showed up over and over:  “…sweat, my mind…”. Not what I was looking for. Sweat is not a poetic word to me, conjuring toil’s result, or a marathoner’s glistening.
 

So I changed my search word to “sweat used in poetry.” I found a short story by Zora Neale Hurston titled “Sweat,” first published in 1926. Then, a poem, “Sweat” by Sandra Alcosser, b. 1944.
 

Next was a piece of rhymed and metered verse that could have been written by a junior high football player. The first and final stanzas were, “Ouey gooey sticky sweat/ it must be hot out, / this I’ll bet.” Bill Sawyers was the poet. His bio informs that he’s been a school custodian for 25 years and he writes short, to-the-point poems for children aged five and up. I take back what I said earlier. His heart is in the right place.
 

Then I found a free verse poem of 20 lines by Robert Johnston that uses the word “sweat” 15 times!
 

Whoa! Sometimes a search like this provides ‘way more information than you need--TMI. Here is an example:
 

 "See sweat used in context: 100 poetry verses, 34 Shakespeare works, 3 Bible passages, 48 definitions.” I did not look them up; I’ll take the website’s word for it.

 

A couple more examples and I’m ready to close out this “sweat” business. Who knew sweat was such a popular subject? Not I, said the writer who has a jillion poems and not one about sweat!
 

I’m glad I caught the mention of Clementine Hunter. I think, however, that I’ll take only Hunter’s phrase, “You gotta sweat your mind,” and apply it to those things that sometimes seem nearly impossible to do.
 

 Like patch vintage ceiling plaster, install a new fluorescent light over the sink.

Like light the gaslog's pilot light.
 

 Like write a book. Or even a blog post.



Another week in the Ozarks: writing/ critiquing

 

 

                OCTOBER 25, Saturday, 3 p.m. – Couchwood. Prepping to leave for a week at Eureka Springs by way of Beebe overnight at b-f-f Dot’s.

                OCTOBER 26, Sunday, 10:14 a.m. Leaving Beebe on Hwy 64, turning north on Hwy 5 at El Paso through Rosebud to Quitman—new territory for me—we hit Hwy 65, thence to Marshall for gas, and Ferguson’s for coffee and a huge cinnamon roll. The vista was aflame with reds, oranges and yellows. Then through Harrison to Hwy 62 West, and on through Alpena, Hugh, Green Forest, Berryville and Eureka Springs. Between the latter two, we were stopped in traffic for (it turned out) fire trucks and ambulances. A vehicle was burned black.

At the Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow, we secured keys and found our suites in 505--the Usonion house adjacent—Muse 1 and Muse 2. After unpacking—or not—we sat on the deck with lemonade and surveyed this part of the Ozarks that we both love. Meals on the weekend have to be self-prepared from stores in the main kitchen, but we’d each brought enough food, so we ate in “our” dining area. Later, Dot worked a little on the BIG Sunday AD-G puzzle, then passed the paper on to me. I stayed up as long as it took to finish.

OCTOBER 27, Monday, 8:30 a.m. On the deck early, I began what might become the penultimate chapter of Her Face in the Glass, the sequel to A Journey of Choice. The voice is Liddy. It’s late October after WW2 ended. She’s sitting out early on their porch and enjoying the ambiance of the season AND the Missouri Ozarks. (Sound familiar?)

At 7 p.m., a Haymaker session was scheduled across town. At 6:50, mesmerized by another resident’s unfolding life, I remembered, bounded up from the communal dinner, and fled.

At 10, the six poets who had, as one guy said, “tortured” (critiqued) each others’ work, “limped away” to rest for the “onslaught” of a second session the next morning. All our poems were equally discussed, dissected or divided. Fun, fun, fun!

OCTOBER 28, Tuesday, 8:30 a.m. The poets met at the Forest Hill Restaurant, and then to the Express Inn (formerly HOJO) for another session. The glassed-in breakfast room jutting out from the building was our  meeting place.

After that session, we traveled to Sparky’s for lunch, fortifying ourselves for the final session that afternoon. Afterwards, we hugged and kissed (in some cases) those friends we won’t see again for a while.

OCTOBER 29, Wednesday, 8:45 a.m., in the 505 conference room—by then it had turned cold--too cold to sit outside. My goal this morning was to write the challenging assignment for the Bombadil’s online writing group, a branch of the Missouri State Poetry Society. Dot worked on her fourth novel (she read two or three books during the week). And I wrote until time to meet our friend Vicki for lunch at Catfish Cabin.

Afterwards, Vicki returned to work and Dot and I browsed at the Echo, a thrift shop that helps a medical entity.  Mid-afternoon, we returned with our bargains, and worked (or napped) until dinner time down the hill.

We secluded ourselves until 9:30 p.m. (wine-thirty) when we broke for snacks and visiting.

Alas, everything must end, and so must this post.

 Happy November to you.

 

A Story: When I was nine—in 1919

 

 

            I heard it before I saw it.

            The humming came from beyond the woods. The sound was lower than the whine of the 13-year cicadas that came out last year. It wasn’t the train––that came from the opposite direction. The noise was coming closer and closer, and I was out here alone.

            My forehead throbbed where Lotus had kicked me five summers ago. From my perch on a low chinaberry limb, I rubbed the scar and wondered what I’d do if I had to escape.

            Should I stay put and hope for the best or run across the yard to the cellar? Trouble was, a big piece of lava rock from Mama’s lily garden anchored the sloping, tin-covered door. Even if I pushed the stone off, could I lift the bulky hatch? 

            Spiders and rats and snakes might waylay me. And bats. We’d had bats scootch under the inside door and fly around in the house.

            Could my legs carry me to the far end of the front porch? What if I tripped over the sandbox? Or stepped on a piece of glass?

            Would anything be scary enough to make me climb over the well curb and hang inside by my hands? I shuddered at the thought of falling in. Frogs had, and they’d died. We could taste them in the drinking water like we tasted bitterweeds in Bossy’s milk.

            No, I’d climb higher into the leafy branches. Maybe I could hide myself into safety. But what if I got so scared my arms turned to jelly?

            The roar grew deafening. Whatever it was rattled and clunked worse than the old Number Nine climbing the grade to Black Mountain. Birdie stood beneath the chinaberry and barked. I shook like the lacy leaves sheltering me. Birdie’s bark became a howl. The earth vibrated. I squinched my eyes tight and hung on, digging my throbbing head into the rough bark. “Dear Lord,” I prayed.

            If I lived to tell about this, I’d better see what hit me. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes a mite. Looking up through a gap in the branches, I saw bright red letters on the gray belly of an airplane not far from my head. SANK WEAVER’S JOY RIDES, it read. The plane touched ground nearby in Daddy’s hayfield.

            Breathing a sigh, I relaxed my hold. My heart pounded like it did after I’d chased Birdie to the lower forty and back. Uncle Sank and his practical jokes. Daddy’s kid brother’d learned to fly planes in the First War. When he came home, he traveled to Fort Smith and gave thrill rides to folks willing to risk the latest invention of air travel.

            Birdie and I lit out to the hayfield. We’d give him to know he scared us out of three year’s growth.

            And for that, he’d have to take us up in his airplane.

History happenings in Octobers of the mid-to-late 1940s

 

This time last year, I wrote about a compendium I’d found. I quoted one item each from A to Z. Today, I opened another book, From Elvis to E-mail: Trends, Events and Trivia from the Post-War Era to the End of the Century by Paul Dickson, published by Federal Street Press, a division of Merriam-Webster, Inc. in 1990. I had used this book only once since 2001. During floor refinishing this summer, everything was moved and this volume was placed with other trivia books on my desk.

                Beginning in 1945 (post-war), the book tells a snippet about every important person, place or thing.

                For October that year are these entries: On the 4th: American occupation authorities in Japan ordered the imperial government to end all restrictions on freedom of speech, religion, and assembly, disband the ‘thought police,’ and release 3,000 political prisoners.

                On October 29: The first American ballpoint pens went on sale at Gimbels in NYC. They cost $12.50 each and quickly sold out.

                On October 16 of 1946, ten top German Nazi war criminals were hanged in Nuremberg. On October 25, President Truman, facing demands for housing from returning veterans and others who waited during the war, declared a state of emergency in housing and lifted import restrictions on lumber. The shortage eased only when builders developed new ways to produce inexpensive tract housing on a large scale.

                On the 5^th of October, 1947, during the first televised presidential address, Americans were asked to give up eating meat on Tuesdays and poultry on Thursdays to help alleviate food shortages and starvation in Europe.

                On October 14^th of that year, Air force captain Charles Yeager, flying the Bell X-1, exceeded the speed of sound to become the world’s first supersonic flier. The sound barrier had been broken.

                On the 20^th, the House Un-American Activities Committee opened public hearings into Communist influence in Hollywood, laying the groundwork for a blacklist of suspected subversives in the movie industry.

                On the 29^th, the General Electric Company, conducting experiments on the control of weather, used dry ice to seed cumulus clouds at Concord, New Hampshire. It produced rain.

                October 14^th, 1948 saw the beginning of a fluoridation program in NYC. The teeth of 50,000 schoolchildren were coated with sodium fluoride.

                On October 22^nd of that year, inventor Chester Carlson put on the first public demonstration of xerography in NYC.

                The first day of October 1949 saw Mao Tse-tung officially proclaiming China a Communist state.

                On the 6^th of the month that year, President Truman signed the Mutual Defense Assistance Act, which gave $1.3 billion to our NATO allies.

                On the 14^th, eleven top Communist leaders were convicted of conspiring to advocate the overthrow of the US government. On the 21^st, all were fined $10,000 and given jail sentences of three to five years.

                On the 26^th, the president signed a bill that raised the minimum wage from forty to seventy-four cents an hour.

                We’ve been told what will happen if we ignore history. Let’s don’t.

Preparing for winter -- again

~Google images~

 

          Time to bring the plants in, says Ms. Janet Carson, the horticulturist. Where do I put them? I ask myself. In front of windows, I answer.
 

          Now, I have plenty of windows but not all of them will host a plant--small, tall, narrow, H-UG-E, like the schefflera that's 3-feet wide and 2-feet tall. OK, narrow it down to possibilities: the breakfast room/green room on the southwest corner. Three windows, two doors. In fact, since the hardwood floors in the office/sunroom are again beautiful (without years of water spots from dripping plants), they won’t go in there. The Green Room/ old breakfast-room area will soon be filled. It reminds me of the late Edna Brown’s room of wintering-over plants.

          The pear-motif-ed curtains are still down to let in the light. I must cut the huge variegated privet from the west window—again for more light.

           Since this is an old house with thin-paned windows, time and weather have messed with the casings, etc. Where air can get in, I either caulk or lay vintage lace into those places, then arrange clear or colored glass pieces on top. One winter, I used fake snow fabric. That way, I could imagine an inside, but never-melting, snow scene.

          This winter, however, the newly-laid vinyl tile floor is to be considered. No water should stand on it, the tile men warned. So each plant must have its own saucer.

          
            At the south windows, on a two-by-twelve, hand-built-by-Dad, bench (we used to sit on at breakfast many years ago), I will arrange the jade plant, an 8-year-old dish garden, a drunkard’s dream, and anything else that will fit. Then, I’ll maneuver the huge schefflera into the corner.

          At the west window, I’ll bring in another like-sized bench from the front porch and place the two ferns on it, and whatever else that there’s room for. Mom’s lacy fern will go in a tall metal plant holder. The smaller plants will rest on the table in the center.

         The angel wings and beefsteak begonias and the pepperomia I might place on card-table chairs or wooden step stools. The mother-in-law’s tongue and split-leafed philodendron, the peace lilies, a corn plant and the Norfolk Pine will more than likely have to spend the winter on a back porch table covered with a flannel-backed plastic cloth. Oh, how could I forget the money plant the church gave me when I retired in 2009?

        
       Changing the subject: The theme of this year’s Season’s Greeting Letters, published in Baltimore by Mohammed H. Siddiqui, was “breeze/ breezes.” Each year he asks for haiku and tanka on a selected theme. I have been lucky enough to warrant a place or two in a dozen years’ issues. This year, he chose these poems of mine:

 

parking lot breezes

aluminum can 

rolling, rolling

 

mid-June rain

 in the porch swing

 making my own breeze

         
   May your autumn breezes bring happiness and contentment.
   And bring your plants in soon.

 

OMGosh! moments

from Google images

 

              9. 22. ’14: OMGosh! It’s 5:48 a. m. Must get up and write down an idea about how to finish a chapter of the sequel and answer a long-ago question in A Journey of Choice. Why was Dovie such a nervous wreck the night Bird Briley threw rocks at Liddy’s house?

9. 23. ’14: OMGosh! A Facebook video shows a huge elk herd crossing a highway, each one jumping the fence. One remained behind. It either couldn’t or wouldn’t jump. It tried to ream a hole in the fence large enough to scoot through. Nope. Loped down the fence a ways, perhaps to find a weak or low spot? Nope. As the herd moved away in single file, the left-behind animal got desperate. It ran back to get a good start. Lo and behold, it cleared the fence and ran like a racer. Voila!

Did the herd wait? No. The leader didn’t know there was a laggard, a coward, a fraidy-elk. Did its mother know, and instead of following, turn back to encourage her child? No. No one—not one came to its aid. “Gotta be brave and do this myself,” it might have thought. Or “Hey, there goes my sustenance. Gotta get outta’ this trap.”

I’m a sucker for a happy ending.

10. 2. ’14: OMGosh! Ten pages before the end of a great novel by Linda Apple (I read both for the story AND—being in two critique groups--the nitty-gritty stuff that’s probably the publisher’s doings), I nearly screamed. In the description of a wedding, Pachelbel’s "Cannon in D" came into focus. Oh, no! Oh, no! Pachelbel’s piece is a canon! I think the publisher’s auto-correct function took over, and since there IS the word “cannon,” the spell check function didn’t flag it. The publisher's been notified, the author said.

10.3.’14: OMGosh! When I opened the large plastic container with last year’s autumn/ Thanksgiving stuff, I was stunned: the real gourds had molded (dumb-da-dum-dumb) and covered all the glass and composite items, too. Yuck. As many years as I’ve used fresh gourds in my arrangements, I should know by now that they need airing so they will dry naturally. I DID salvage enough for a basket full of items that I placed on the buffet.

                10.3. ’14: OMGosh! As I tried to place a new (to me) pear-motif plastic platter—a birthday “flea” from two sisters—between the bracket-held shelves in the back hall, all heck broke loose when a bracket came out of its housing, and the 3/8 inch plywood came tumbling down. Swiftly, I moved my flip-flop-uncovered feet backwards as I yelled. A Niloak vase met its broken self, as did a green glass votive holder and another ceramic vase. The mower keys were under the shelf itself.

                10. 3. ’14: Scrolling through Facebook, I saw a photo that looked like my elder daughter. Beautiful smile, nice hair, well dressed, happy looking. I commented to the one who posted, “Is that J. B. with you? I haven’t seen her in ages.”

                Here’s a new poem:

3 a. m. t-storm

 leaves my yard

full of colored leaves.”

 Happy Autumn.

Epiphany: I've become my mother! But not quite

                For nine days straight, I had to leave the house to go somewhere––a doctor’s appointment, a friend’s funeral, bell practice, church, a monthly luncheon with friends, a monthly breakfast with other friends, the hospital for an out-patient procedure, another bell practice as a sub, a writers’ group meeting. Nine straight days I had to get clean, apply make-up, dress (according to the place/event), be sure I had my phone and keys and purse. And gasoline.

                Afterwards, I re-dressed to my everyday garb and laid my clothes on whatever surface was available in either the bedroom or bathroom. I would likely wear everything again.

                One day, it hit me: I had taken over one of Mom’s characteristics the way she took over Dad’s after his death. Many’s the time I visited and her clothes were layered on the recliner. Some on the back, some on the arms, some in the seat. I don’t remember saying anything to her about putting away her clothes. And I’m glad I didn’t.

                Mom always wanted to look her best even at her advanced age, so she kept her magnifying mirror and her Avon beauty products on the breakfast room table. Sis Carolyn would do her hair between perms. I often laughed that Mom was vain, but now, I do the same thing. Am I also vain? I’ll need to consider changing the description from “vain” to “wanting to look nice.” Yes, that’s it. Even into old age. Especially into old age.

                A third way I have become “my Mom” is that I religiously—no, that’s not the right word—diligently work the crypto-quotes and the crosswords, even if it’s the last thing I do before retiring. Even if it’s nearly midnight. Toward the last, Mom sat in her recliner (moved to the breakfast room where a TV sat) with a crossword book and pencil. Talk about diligence.  It wouldn’t have been right to go behind her and check her words and point out that she didn't do it right. Nope, not for one in her early nineties.

                I’ve followed her and Dad’s life-long penchant for subscribing to the state daily—the Arkansas Gazette, and then the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. They also subscribed to the Benton Courier, as do I, only now, it is the Saline County Courier. So many folks do not get a state paper—only the local one, if that. But I have to remember: most folks get their news from TV and I don’t.

                Also, like Mom, I keep house plants, including her African violets, which have grown and multiplied. I’ve shared them—like I did the pears—with any who want one, and still have babies growing in the kitchen windowsills. One of her two hanging baskets of common begonia is still thriving, though I’ve divided it into two. Her split-leaf philodendron is growing, despite the year I nearly lost it to the cold weather. Even on the back porch.

                But I’m not like Mom in other ways. I don’t attend Sunday School. And I attend church until after the anthem. Even when she couldn’t hear very well, she sat with the other ladies and sang and “listened” raptly. She liked the projection screen; she didn’t have to manhandle the heavy hymnal with her arthritic hands. People adored her.

                I can only hope to enter heaven on her coattails.

Can openers and corkscrews: adversaries

 

 

 

 

Can openers and corkscrews: adversaries

 

 

                Is it because I’m left-handed that these two machines/ implements/ kitchen aids never seem to work right?

                The electric can opener I inherited lies abandoned in an unused file cabinet on the back porch. The new one I bought, likewise. Sometimes they worked; most times, they didn’t. Could it have been the way I held my mouth, as the saying goes? Maddening!

                 I even bought a Pampered Chef can opener—one that, positioned a certain way that I can never remember, opens from the can instead from the lid. I’ve used it once.

                Right now on my countertop, several cans of soup-makings sit with a white-plastic-handled manual can opener on top. I’m hoping their proximity will provide good vibes when I ever get around to actually opening said veggies for said soup.

                Corkscrews are also adversaries. Each one I’ve had works, but holds the cork hostage inside the worm (?) no matter what I do. Short of cutting the cork out by sawing with a steak knife, I usually leave it until it’s needed again. Then, whomever is here gets to puzzle out the solution.

                I’ve begun buying tuna in sealed packages and canned fruit with plastic lids and spoons tucked neatly inside. They’re a breeze to open.

                It’s not my reflexes. I can catch a falling glass before it hits the floor. Or an aluminum pan of hot enchiladas that folds in my hand as I take it from the oven.

                It’s gotta be that I’m left-handed and these implements are made by right-handed men.

                Now and then—mostly all the time—the computer keeps me alert by moving the cursor while I’m typing, pulling up a pale screen of possibilities or skipping about on the page. Just now, the screen moved upward, my text out of sight. It’s a good thing I live alone. Otherwise, my housemates might get the idea that I’m yelling at them from another room. If computers had ears…… oh, dear.

              Another adversary is the neighborhood tom cat, unfixed, who’s found that I feed my cats outside. He lies in wait behind a shrub, on the far end of a bench, or on the rock step to the birdbath.

           The female—the only cat that’s not fixed, and who’s had (as of this very day) her third litter by that roaming roué,--comes to eat, and as soon as I disappear behind the door, he proceeds to nose her out of the dish.

Like some females of all species, she moves out of his way until he is sated. Unless I see him first and spray him with a mixture of vinegar and water.  It’s that, or go sit out near the steps with my bottle. Some days I win; some days he wins. Ambivalence, inconsistency—my strong suit as far as this goes.

Finally, Bermuda grass bedevils me by growing back into the space I removed it for expanding flower beds. “I was here first!” it seems to believe, so I find the hoe and show it who’s boss. For the moment.

Thank goodness, kudzu hasn’t gotten a foot-, uh, root-hold in my place. Bermuda, honeysuckle and privet are all I can handle.

 And that’s debatable.

              Is it because I’m left-handed that these two machines/ implements/ kitchen aids never seem to work right?

                The electric can opener I inherited lies abandoned in an unused file cabinet on the back porch. The new one I bought, likewise. Sometimes they worked; most times, they didn’t. Could it have been the way I held my mouth, as the saying goes? Maddening!

                 I even bought a Pampered Chef can opener—one that, positioned a certain way that I can never remember, opens from the can instead from the lid. I’ve used it once.

                Right now on my countertop, several cans of soup-makings sit with a white-plastic-handled manual can opener on top. I’m hoping their proximity will provide good vibes when I ever get around to actually opening said veggies for said soup.

                Corkscrews are also adversaries. Each one I’ve had works, but holds the cork hostage inside the worm (?) no matter what I do. Short of cutting the cork out by sawing with a steak knife, I usually leave it until it’s needed again. Then, whomever is here gets to puzzle out the solution.

                I’ve begun buying tuna in sealed packages and canned fruit with plastic lids and spoons tucked neatly inside. They’re a breeze to open.

                It’s not my reflexes. I can catch a falling glass before it hits the floor. Or an aluminum pan of hot enchiladas that folds in my hand as I take it from the oven.

                It’s gotta be that I’m left-handed and these implements are made by right-handed men.

                Now and then—mostly all the time—the computer keeps me alert by moving the cursor while I’m typing, pulling up a pale screen of possibilities or skipping about on the page. Just now, the screen moved upward, my text out of sight. It’s a good thing I live alone. Otherwise, my housemates might get the idea that I’m yelling at them from another room. If computers had ears…… oh, dear.

              Another adversary is the neighborhood tom cat, unfixed, who’s found that I feed my cats outside. He lies in wait behind a shrub, on the far end of a bench, or on the rock step to the birdbath.

           The female—the only cat that’s not fixed, and who’s had (as of this very day) her third litter by that roaming roué,--comes to eat, and as soon as I disappear behind the door, he proceeds to nose her out of the dish.

Like some females of all species, she moves out of his way until he is sated. Unless I see him first and spray him with a mixture of vinegar and water.  It’s that, or go sit out near the steps with my bottle. Some days I win; some days he wins. Ambivalence, inconsistency—my strong suit as far as this goes.

Finally, Bermuda grass bedevils me by growing back into the space I removed it for expanding flower beds. “I was here first!” it seems to believe, so I find the hoe and show it who’s boss. For the moment.

Thank goodness, kudzu hasn’t gotten a foot-, uh, root-hold in my place. Bermuda, honeysuckle and privet are all I can handle.

 And that’s debatable.