What's been happening in your neck of the woods?

Burning Bush in the early spring - PL 

 

          Before I set the current journal aside, I'll share some of the jottings I felt strongly enough about to ... well, jot down.

          First, grandson Billy spent his 25th birthday at his home in Arkadelphia. He was a little under the weather. I sent last-week’s column/ post about him, and he called soon after he read it, ala my wish to keep in better touch. He said he’d learned since he wrote that essay that writers weren’t supposed to thank their readers. I thought his ‘voice’ came through very well.

Several years ago, I bemoaned the retirement of Meredith Oakley as editor of AD-G’s VOICES page. But I am enjoying Brenda Looper’s weekly columns on situations she deals with as associate editor of that space. She is a self-admitted ‘word nerd’ with a great sense of humor.

            Being a big supporter of Dale Bumpers, and having read his book, Best Lawyer in a One-Lawyer Town, (2003), I was saddened to learn he has dementia. All the brouhaha over his diary entries gives me a pain. Anything to discredit or cast blame on the Clintons. I sort of hope she doesn’t run for president. She’s endured enough as it is. Why would she want to go through all this again?

            With the sale of her painting, “Jimson Weed/White Flower No. 1,” Georgia O’Keefe’s work is now considered in the top tier of 20^th - century artists internationally. This from an article by C. Bahn, in the state paper.

            In world news, an article by A. Shaheed (AP) says Iran executes more people per capita than any other nation. (Shudder.) A news-in-brief said Yemen is the Arab world’s poorest country. And don’t even mention the Cotton, et al. fracas.

            A piece from the Northwest AD-G  by A. Buckley inspired this poem:

                                    Pea Ridge / changing the habitat/ to attract bobwhites

            The header on a picture last week said, “Cranes in the mist.” Oh, what a good haiku first line, I thought. But I couldn’t see any birds. Then I read the caption: “Construction cranes peek out of the mist.” Ohh.  (Picture by R. McFarland)

            I had to sign for a certified letter the other day. What in the wide world? I thought. What have I done now? Or is Billy in trouble?

            It was about plans for a 120-lot subdivision proposed to be built across Couchwood Road, which is adjacent to my property—the reason I received the letter. A public meeting will be held in early April for any discussion.
           My first thought was, there goes the neighborhood! The quiet, the hayfield, the old Indian mounds we as children thought might hold some treasures, the added traffic, both sounds and fumes--as if traffic today isn’t enough.

 Sigh... Progress... Change... Inevitable... Country becoming town... Like it or lump it, etc...

Grandson Billy is 25 today!

       Any of you who know me know about the grandson I raised from the age of eight months till . . . well, till now. The only “raising” I do presently is present him with rent and car payment funds when Cracker Barrel shorts his hours. And I always warn him (ahem) about driving in bad weather. That’s a grandparent’s prerogative, isn’t it? Oh, and I send money for his college textbooks—one of which cost $250, he said.

       [In the late 1970s when I was finishing my distance classes for my Masters, I thought the person who charged me $28 for a used textbook was cheating me. He wasn’t.]
 
       Billy lived in downtown Arkadelphia for all of last year, so I won’t be able to check “head of household” on taxes for the first time. I don’t yet know if that will be a good thing or not. I certainly won’t insist that he move back home because of it. I’ve already turned his room into a guest room!

       As young adults sometimes do, he doesn’t keep in as close touch with “home” as I’d like, but he is back at HSU, determined to “finish” and find a “job” teaching in the early education field.

       Here is an essay he wrote in English class at age fourteen. I came across a folder with several essays and one formal paper. He gave me permission long ago to use anything he wrote.

                                      THE REAL ME – by Billy Paulus.

       “Do you think you really know who I am? Well, after you read this, you will know me all too well. You will learn that I love art. That I abhor violence and fighting. And. that I have many different outlooks on life. So, if you want to know who I am, prepare to find out.

       “First of all, I’m very creative. I love to make origami, because it helps me to relax. I love to read books and to write. I also love to draw and/or look at any forms of art. I think, and hope, that everyone is creative in their own special way.

       “One of the worst things that I hate to see is violence, so I guess that makes me a peace lover. I have always tried to be an advocate and stand up for people. I would never fight if I could choose to walk away instead. I don’t get angry very easily and am usually a very happy person. I just wish that I could do more for everybody right now, but I guess it will just have to wait.

       “But, the one thing that most people do not know about me is that I am sort of a philosopher. I always think that there is hope during a bad situation. I don’t think, I know that nothing is impossible. And my strongest belief is that no one is weird. We are just ourselves. And, being a philosopher, I know that not everyone has the same philosophies about life.

       “Well, there you have it. You now know more about me. You know that I’m creative. That I’m against fighting. And that I’m very optimistic. If you ever have any more questions, please feel free to ask any time. I hope you enjoyed it. Goodbye.”

       This almost made me cry—not tears of sadness, but of pride and warmth. Such feelings are due a parentis in loco, no?
      
       HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BILLY.

"You read all of Jane Austen's novels?"

An earlier spring at Couchwood-PL

One year in January, grandson Billy and I visited Hastings. I lingered in the foyer and fingered through the marked- down volumes.

 

Patrice Hannon’s book, Dear Jane Austen, captured my attention immediately. This college professor, who had taught the literature of Jane Austen for many years, wrote as in Austen’s voice to answer modern-day girls’ questions: sort of a series of lovelorn columns. Fascinating enough, but beyond the characters in Pride and Prejudice, I knew nothing about the heroines and heroes of Austen’s other books that she mentioned. Thus, I couldn’t make sense of her suggestions.

 

 I determined to read each novel, plus biographical sketches of Miss Austen herself. I had bought a cute, tiny, pink-covered copy of Sense and Sensibility––a flea-market find. Searching for it at home, I thought of a lede of Meredith Oakley, AD-G: “I saw it somewhere. It’s just a matter of opening the right box.” I said to myself, “I saw it (the book) somewhere. It’s just a matter of looking in the right shelf.”

 

And in two months, I’d read Sense and Sensibility, Northanger Abbey, Mansfield Park, Persuasion, Emma and Pride and Prejudice––again. Then I re-read Hannon’s book and knew whereof she spoke.

 

What I didn’t know were the meanings of many of the words in Austen's writing:

*moiety,

*sanguine,

*diffident,

*incommode,

*demesne,

*downs [as in “ascended the downs”],

*exigence,

 *curricle.

 

I looked them up, of course.

 

Later, while searching for information on the authors and short stories I’d just read, I came upon the blog entry below. I was studying the short story, Stanley Elkin’s "A Poetics for Bullies."

 

Molly Gaudry’s post about this story was just what I needed:  “One of the more valuable lessons I learned as a student" she wrote, "is to let whatever you’re reading do some work for you. For example, now that I’ve finished Stanley Elkin’s [story], I’ve given myself the following prompt: to write a story about an adolescent boy or girl in an antagonistic role. Make your character interesting—flawed, complex, confused. To get started, think about a moment when s/he would be most flawed, complex, and confused, and begin writing from just before or after that moment.”

 

I won’t compose that story, but I will let my readings work for me: as a challenge to look up the meanings of unknown words and or phrases––a few of which follow.

 

ambit – sphere of influence;

bindlestiff––a hobo, usually one who carries a bedroll;

buncombe – unacceptable behavior, especially ludicrously false statements;

cloque – a blister or bubble; a fabric with raised design;

corporeal – for or about the body; physical; tangible;

cruciverbalist ––a puzzle maker;

doppelganger- a tangible double of a living person that typically represents evil.

drupe––mango;

dystopian––negative utopia, often characterized by authoritarian and totalitarian governments;

Judas tree––a redbud tree; 

hegemony––domination; control by one or a group;

 hortatory––urging to some course of conduct or action; exhorting; encouraging;

iliad—a series of miseries or disastrous events or exploits; a long narrative;

lagniappe––a gratuity or extra, complimentary gift [pronounced lan-YAPP or LAN-yapp];   

marque––a distinctive emblem on an automobile;

mendacity––deliberate untruthfulness.

 

Now if I can just remember the definitions when I see these words again.

~~

BTW, I had saved a picture of a dance scene in Pride and Prejudice--perfect for this post. And though I tried everything I knew to do, nothing worked. Maybe I can post it to Facebook: (I photo-ed it on my tablet.) --PL



 



Hello, world! I'm back!

 

                The title sounds egotistical, I know, but stay with me for a bit. From Valentine’s Day—after a trip to Conway for one of my writers’ groups—till Sunday, February 22, I didn’t get out of the house, except to retrieve the papers (when they came) and the mail (when it came).

                On Sunday, February 22, I accepted a ride to west Little Rock’s St. James UMC with a choir member who lives in the Congo-Avilla area. The liturgical season of Lent had begun—this was the first Sunday of the 40-day period of contemplation, prayer and preparation to coincide with Jesus’ 40 days in the wilderness.

                I needed to sing great hymns, to listen to the bells and the anthem, the sermon and the organ postlude, which was scheduled to be a Bach piece. Bach and organ equal heaven on earth for me.

                As soon as we walked into the sanctuary about 10:30, of the four folks already there, I knew three of them!  Talk about blessings! Felix and Martha Lynn Thompson, they who started the well-known and beloved hand bell program at St. James, were already seated.

I knew Felix when we both taught music in the schools. At that time, we were in the same Region, so we saw each other at Festivals (called Contests now) and at various music-reading clinics.

I knew of Martha through her hand bell arrangements, some of which I used during the first decade of this century.

The third person I knew was Joyce Potts Faulkner, who grew up in Benton, but who now lives in Little Rock with her husband. Though we attended different high schools, we both took piano lessons from Mrs. Lorene Houston. I had seen and visited with her once before at a concert. We visited again on this day and I met her husband.

Folks were coming in quickly by this time, so I headed back up the aisle and sidestepped into Martha and Felix’s pew. It filled quickly. People visited with each other as happens in all churches.

Long story short (so I can tell another story), it was an uplifting, praiseful, joyous service. But during the postlude, I sat while the other worshipers sidestepped beyond me to the center aisle.

Finally, I arose and moved down toward the choir door to wait. Lo and behold, here came another person up the same aisle. Not realizing until we got closer who we were walking toward, when recognition hit, we screamed (well…) each other’s names and hugged. Turns out that we had talked via email a day or two before. She’s a poet friend of many years.

A wonderful experience; a wonderful day.

Not until Friday, February 27 did I venture out again. The snow had melted except in north-facing patches of shade. This trip was to Bryant for the “Bryant Bunch Lunch,” a half-dozen friends who meet monthly.

While I had been hibernating, gasoline had risen by 25 cents a gallon; buildings at the monstrously-large Hurricane Village mall had gone up; streets had been laid and curbs built. 

Last Saturday, two outings were scheduled: one, a breakfast meeting of a group of 1954 Bryant girl grads, and in the afternoon, a meeting of the local poets. Since I was the speaker, I had to be ready before the breakfast excursion. After poets, I stopped at Sue’s to deliver some information, and we enjoyed a great, rare visit.

Again, a wonderful experience; a wonderful day.

                Bored? Cabin fever?  Not on your life?