Looking ahead then looking back

 

Beautyberries close up

 Now that the election is over—if it IS over and decided—we can get on with our political angst (on both sides) and set about to straighten out our part of the country—if it needs it. We can concentrate on how to navigate the upcoming holidays.

Our family Thanksgiving plans, like many others I presume, are cancelled. 

But, to sort of make up for that, I am involved in two other fun activities. One is our monthly writing group meeting next Wednesday, meaning that BFF Dot is overnighting at Couchwood so we can both attend. 

               

The other is a new event: hosting the local poets meeting. Our regular gathering place, the main fire station, is closed for the year. For the past two months, the group has met at a pavilion at Tyndall Park. But plans are that mid-November temps will preclude meeting there again. So I volunteered. That gives me the opportunity to decorate the front part of the house with all the fall-motif collections I’ve amassed over the years.

Let me finish out goings-on at Dairy Hollow in Eureka Springs that I began last week. On another day, either Saturday or Sunday, we stopped at La Familia for lunch. Again, we were masked and seated ourselves at a booth near a wall.

Lunch boxes—many, many lunch boxes--decorated an upper shelf as far as we could see. Patrons sometimes stopped by close to us to gape at them. I don’t remember ever carrying a lunch box to school, but I remember Dad’s black one, about as large as our mailbox, with a tall thermos inside. I’m drawing a blank about what Lydia ordered but I had a taco salad.

The weather during the week until late Thursday was raw—cold, windy, raining, or rainy. We stayed in and wrote. Monday night was communal dinner in the Main House. Though there were two other writers around, they’d chosen to eat in their rooms. Greens/veggie salads, pureed  soups—one night, carrot and tomato, another night, served in what I call a cereal bowl, squash, and coconut. Those two items were enough for entire meal, but, no, we had a plate of chicken, roasted broccoli and carrots, and mashed potatoes. We ate most of that meal at the table.

Another noon, we drove out of town toward Rogers to Rowdy Beavers. It was raining, but I didn’t hear any rowdiness and saw no beavers scurrying around. LOL

  

Wednesday night, we ate salmon, roasted veggies, and rice. (Jana alternated between potatoes and rice.) Another night was a pork chop, potatoes, and roasted cauliflower. On our last night, Thursday, for dessert, Lydia had store-bought wafers and I had two severed fingers, complete with slivered-almond fingernails and red food coloring blood. They were made from a sugar cookie recipe—in honor of Halloween.

 Lydia finished her long-in-progress novel and I worked steadily toward the Creative-Non-Fiction assignments looming before the term ends in December.

The drive home on Friday merited a gas-stop again at Marshall, then a side trip to Leslie where my youngest brother—he of the Arkansas River flood a couple of Mays ago—lives after leaving Mayflower. He is in possession of an orchard, raised vegetable beds, and a two-story house with a basement.

                

He also has animal neighbors: 30 feral pigs, bobcats and even a bear or two have been spotted by neighbors. Ooh!

c 2020, by PL, dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

 

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.

After two weeks in the Ozarks

 

 

                Home now from two glorious weeks at the Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow in Eureka Springs.

Oh, the new chapters I wrote. Oh, the books I read and reviewed.  And the poems I penned.

               I also contacted the poets who’d submitted to “CALLIOPE: A Writer’s Workshop,” for which I’m the newly-appointed editor.

              What else? I learned to operate the digital camera bought two months ago, and while doing so, discovered the company had been out of business for eight years! Why were their products still being sold?

              I made notes from the books I read. I brainstormed scenarios for the sequel.

                Talya and Dorothy were housemates. We visited over wine-thirty and at dinner.

The last few days, others moved in, either for Crescent Dragonwagon’s Fearless Writing Weekend or for the Colony’s board meeting on Saturday.

Checking my journal, I realized I hadn’t told anyone about the elk head I saw at Marshall on the way up. I’d stopped for gas. Four or five fellows were gathered around a pickup bed. I saw antlers and—nosy, uh, curious me--went over to look. A young man had just killed the beast near Woolem. He described it as “3.5 points.” Woolem was fairly close to Marshall; I passed a sign a little north of there.

For you who like to read about local folks and their “doings,” I have an idea.  Dr. Pat Adcock, professor emeritus at Henderson State University, has written two novels, both of which I read while at the Colony. Bill White of Hot Springs AR especially will enjoy Dr. Adcock’s Muggsbottom stories, for they are set in the Arkadelphia-like town of Arcady. Confession: I loved the books, but I should have had a dictionary at hand. Instead, I listed the unknown-to-me words (I love to find new words.) and later, looked them up.

Some words I knew, thank goodness, from other readings: reprobate, sodomite, debauched, hirsute and reconnoiter. I knew conundrum, cryptic and caveat, contretemps, lachrymose, intimations and histrionics.

But back to the stories: they involve four British gentlemen who do not like the government of Mrs. Thatcher. Therefore, they decide to find another country in which to retire. They butt up against some of the local Arkansas people, their customs and attitudes. The narrator (the thinly disguised author) becomes a friend, observes and reports all their shenanigans. Therein lies the fun.

 Enjoy your autumn-- literally and, if applicable, metaphorically.

In addition to writing . . .

by Pat Laster

Besides writing at the (ahem) writers’ colony this year, I decided to add another activity: a daily walk. With the ups and downs, hills and valleys, twists and turns in this town, I was pretty sure I would work up (walk up) an elevated heart rate.
DAY ONE: Dress: bluejeans, t-shirt, old walking shoes. Route: up the rocky eroded path across from the Colony to the Crescent Hotel parking lot, thence to the street winding down in front of St. Elizabeth’s Church to Spring Street, down Spring St. to #515, my home-away-from-home. Huffing, puffing up the hill (noticing rocks and roots I’d like to take back to Couchwood), catching my breath downhill and on the level street to “home.” Time: 25 minutes.
DAY TWO: Dress: knit tapered pants, a long-tailed, long-sleeved Henderson Reddie t-shirt that showed stomach/hip protrusions. Goal-within-a-goal: by the end of two weeks, no protrusions. Shoes had sprung a flapping sole; jury-rigged with a rubber band for the moment. Route: the reverse of yesterday, except downward on Spring Street instead of the rocky decline. Huffing and puffing on the upward climb, jogging on the downward stretch. Time: 25 minutes.
DAY THREE: Dress: same as yesterday; I didn’t even look for the aforesaid protrusions; I knew they were still there. Route: Of all the times I’ve been a resident here, I’d never ventured further down Polk Street--on the back side of the Colony--than to the Farm House across Dairy Hollow Road which at one time sheltered three more writers.
So, I decided to walk down Dairy Hollow Road which I calculated as north. Good. Not much traffic. Level. Nondescript dwellings, unkempt yards, and then a pasture-like area. Two deer bounded across the road from the forest to the green space.
On and on I walked. I knew there was a private or church school not far. Sure enough, there it was, at the T in the road. Dairy Hollow turned right and climbed severely. The other way climbed more gently so I took it. Besides, it was the direction “home.”
Anderson Road, it was, and it led to the ubiquitous incline, so I slowed. By that time, the rubber band had popped off and my right sole was flapping.
Folks, this was hard climbing. Especially for a 70-something who only walked to the mailbox or the pear tree or to the shed during the day. I’d been walking for thirty minutes. Ahead, I heard dogs and hoped against hope they were penned. They were, but my! they were large. And loud. I slogged on up and around a bend. Houses appeared. I finally saw a human and hailed him. “Any shortcut to the Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow?” I asked.
He pointed as he talked. “Up here a’ways is a street to the left; it jogs more to the left to Tad’s, then to the Joy Motel . . . Don’t go to the highway,” he said. I thanked him, said, yes, I knew my way now, but lawsy me! I was at the junction of 62W, 62B and Scenic Route 62. I was mile upon curvy mile from home!
But at least I knew where home was. And it was still daylight though nearly six p.m. I walked on sidewalks not two feet from some houses. The autumn/Halloween decorations and chrysanthemums were everywhere. A white bush-flower that I knew but couldn’t put a name to except “Aberystwrth” (the Welsh tune to “Jesus, Lover of my Soul”) grew alongside the paths.
Finally, 45 minutes into my daily walk/slog, I remembered the plant name: ageratum. I had grown the blue kind many years ago.
One hour after I began walking, I stepped onto Writers Colony grounds. I’d made a complete circle. I deserved a treat, I did. So I gathered up food from the residents’ fridge (pre-ordered) and made the last few steps uphill to my suite. My treat: ice cream.
Forget losing the protrusions. I deserve this. #

c 2011 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press. Check out my poetry blog, pittypatter.blogspot.com, and my first novel, A Journey of Choice, on Amazon, etc.

Once more in the Ozarks to write

by Pat Laster

As I type this on a Wednesday evening in Dairy Hollow’s Spring Garden Suite, I haven’t yet investigated Little Switzerland--as Eureka Springs is often called--for its fall foliage.
However, the trip up Highway 65 afforded many sightings of yellow hickory, red sumac and sweet gum’s still-muted variegated colors. I determined to stop somewhere on the way home and buy a hickory and some sumac to go with the sassafras and crape myrtle already growing on Couchwood.
The wind and the change in temperature brought on another bout of sneezing and nasal drip as I drove through Clinton, Marshall, Dennard, Leslie, St. Joe, Bellefonte, Harrison and Alpena. At Green Forest, traffic was stopped across from the cattle-sale barn for ten or twelve minutes while some road overlay happened.
I arrived at the Writers Colony to find a new director, Mary Jo, with bad news: the toilet in my suite was acting ugly. A plumber had been called and was supposed to be on site that afternoon. If possible.
IF POSSIBLE??? But the stars were aligned as some folks describe it. I drove around the curve to the parking space as Mr. Plumber pulled up to my front door. While the young man worked, I carried in case after case (clothes and writing materials/books) and placed them out of the way.
I held the door while he brought in a “John-in-a-box.” I piddled around in the work space/kitchenette—the mini-fridge had not been turned up—and the microwave was uneven on its platform.
Soon, I heard the man say, “This isn’t gonna work,” or maybe he said “ain’t,” and traipsed back through the suite lugging the “cheap—one-hundred dollar,” er, john. “I’ll have to go back to the shop and get another one.”
“Where’s the shop?” I asked in alarm. “Rogers? Bentonville?”
“No, it’s in town,” and away he flew--as fast as anyone can fly while negotiating a hairpin curve and a steep climb from the valley.
While he was gone, I jury-rigged the crippled microwave with a 3 by 5 note card bent six ways to Sunday. It worked, but I added the situation to my evaluation form. The next writer will have the same problem if it’s not corrected.
Soon, the plumber, bald as an unwigged mannequin, returned with a “more expensive, but in these old houses, the only solution” toilet. Installed quickly. Problem solved.
Given my recent experiences, I asked him about recycling. “All but the porcelain—it’s clay—and the plastic.” About once a month, he loads his trailer, he said, and takes everything else to a salvage yard. The proceeds he splits with his boss. “About $200 a month,” he allowed. “Good pay for the likes of me.”
Now, it is Friday evening. Though there are two more residents here—one from Seattle; one from New York--they ate out, so I dined alone at the big table in the Main House. Vegetable-bean soup, tossed salad, cornbread and chocolate pudding left by the cook who leaves as early as she can—the economy has hit the non-profits hard—but not before placing sticky notes to “turn off the stove,” and “salad in the fridge; have a great weekend.”
I’m sure I’ll have a great weekend: no organ to play, no choir rehearsal to attend, no cats to feed, no pears to peel. I can sit on this front porch not six feet from the street, watch and listen as the bikers roar by this curve, the sound lingering, lingering as they maneuver the hairpin and the incline.
Maybe tomorrow night I’ll hear the clip-clop of the horse-drawn carriage rides.

c 2011 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press

Autumn in (and about) Arkansas

by Pat Laster

Still blooming on Couchwood Hill are Encore azaleas (spotty—I didn’t feed them), crape myrtle, dianthus, variegated wandering jew, Wave petunias (revived from a spring planter), common begonia, yellow zinnias, pink mini roses, Mandevilla (only a few), 7 yucca torches, oxalis, abelia, mums, purple monkey grass, a lone lamb’s ear and a community of yellow wildflowers.
The beautyberries are so dense and heavy that the bush umbrellaed to the ground, providing a haven for three kittens that magically appeared a few weeks ago.
It’s about time I used some of the information collected in what I’m calling a Compendium of Journal Jottings. The rest of the column includes items collected from my readings under the heading of “Around Arkansas.” Readings include the Arkansas Democrat Gazette, Arkansas Times, The Saline Courier, The Amity Standard, Harper’s and New York Times Book Review.
* The position of the state poet laureate was established October 10, 1923, by concurrent resolutions of both houses of the Legislature. Charles T. Davis was the first person named to the post.
* Camp Magnolia in southern Arkansas was where religious conscientious objectors were housed during WWII.
* William Sebastian, namesake of Sebastian County, began his US Senate career in 1947 as the 30th Congress’ youngest senator at age 37.
* Ten counties (as of April 1 2011) operate with two judicial districts and dual courthouses. Carroll and Clay are two of them.
*2011 is the first time in Arkansas history that counties were split when [congressional] district lines were drawn after the 2010 census. Four are in the northwest counties of Crawford, Sebastian, Newton and Searcy.
* According to the latest census, Arkansas has a population of 2, 915, 918.
*Johnny Cash’s family moved to Dyess in 1935 when he was three.
*Dyess Colony was established in 1934 as an agricultural resettlement community under the Works Progress Administration and the Federal Emergency Relief
Administration. More than 500 homes dotted the 15,000 acres in east Mississippi County.
* Under Arkansas law, the death of someone missing for more than three years may be proved by such circumstantial evidence and a death certificate (ordered by a judge) issued.
* Lake Atlanta in Rogers was built in the mid-1930s as a Works Progress Administration project.
*Since 2008, Arkansas has received eleven disaster declarations for tornadoes, floods, snowstorms, ice storms and remnants of three hurricanes.
* For the next fiscal year (beginning in July, 2011), there will be 76,137 positions in our state government.
*An average (in 2011) of from ten-to thirteen-thousand gamblers visit Southland’s casinos on any given Saturday. The Saturday after the Mississippi casinos closed due to flooding, 20,000 visitors came.
*Interstate 40 is 284 miles long.
* Since 1885, twenty-three Little Rock police officers have died in the line of duty.
* “Mid-way clay” lying 75 feet below Interstate 540 shrinks and swells more than other types of clay. (Talk about shape-shifting!) “The earth is very self-correcting. When it needs to move to relieve pressure, it’s going to move,” said Randy Ort, AHD
* Robbie Tilley Branscum, an Arkansan, won the 1982 Edgar Allen Poe Award for the best juvenile mystery, The Murder of Hound Dog Bates.
At this writing, autumn 2011 entered our calendars in as nearly perfect a seasonal temperature as is possible.
As Elizabeth Lawrence wrote, “Even if something is left undone, everyone must take time to sit still and watch the leaves turn.”

c 2011 Pat Laster dba lovepat press