From northwest to northeast Arkansas: a writing retreat

Mike, Pat M., Pat Carr, Pat L., Barbara relaxing after class

Two weeks after leaving Greye-the-cat and Billy-the-the grandson in charge at Couchwood while I went to northeast Arkansas for a few days, I left them again. This time I headed the diagonally-opposite direction—to Piggott in Clay County, for a week’s writing retreat at the Hemingway-Pfeiffer Museum Educational Center, one of the historical projects of Arkansas State University.

Lodging for many of us was at The Inn at Piggott (formerly the Downtown Inn) bed-and-breakfast. Ownership has changed twice since I began staying there, and the latest owners, Tracy and Joe Cole, natives, both go-getters, have begun and are continuing to update “the old girl who sat empty for so long,” as Joe described the two-story red brick former bank building. It sits on the corner of West Main and Second Street. When I arrived, a folded bath towel rested on one of the window sills in the Safari Room (#3)—my favorite room--because of a leak from an unsealed area around it. During our week, painters worked on the outside of the building.

Trains rumble through Piggott day and night, and for the first time in all the years I’ve stayed there, I felt the bed shake as one lumbered past only a block from the Inn. I was sitting up with writing materials on my lap. Others had said they’d felt the building shake, but I hadn’t—until this visit.

Writers gathered from as far away as Boston, MA, Bowling Green, KY, Springfield MO, Sarasota FL, as well as places in Arkansas: Elkins, Floral, Jonesboro, Piggott, Benton, Fayetteville, and West Fork.

               

Mentor, Pat Carr, Elkins, AR

Pat Carr returned for the fourth time as mentor, but this was my first time under her tutelage.  Monday’s subject was Hemingway’s Paris circle and the dramatic point of view. Our assignment was to write about a couple in conflict who know each other well using the third-person-limited point of view, which means “Don’t go into either one’s head.” Dialogue, action, images; short sentences, no clichés, few adjectives, and adverbs. The piece I wrote needed writing for quite a while. I titled it, “Torrent Unleashed.”

Tuesday’s focus was Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and the Observer in “The Great Gatsby.” Our assignment was a “Let me tell you what happened . . .” The writer could also be a character but write solely as an observer. My story, one that also needed to be written—for my possible clarification—I titled “Why Should It Matter?” I had a hard time ending it as Ms. Carr wished, but other writers checked in with suggestions, and I finally wrote a suitable ending.

By week’s end, I turned in two stories and two poems for the Anthology, a souvenir with some of the week’s work by the writers.

The lessons/ assignments were helpful; the notes I wrote more so, but I had an embarrassing moment that took me down a peg. I’d written an “anaphora”-patterned poem for the state poetry society’s monthly contest. And one of our exercises was to write down your first memory. Mine was moving from the “little house” by horse and wagon up to the “big house” when I was six. Eureka! I was able to tweak the original poem for use as this assignment. My mistake was mispronouncing the form. I said “anna-FOR-uh,” having not ever heard it pronounced. My neighbor at the table quickly corrected me, “an-EFF-er-uh.”

Oh, well, at 81, it’s still not too late to learn something. And learn something I did.

Pat L.'s coffee table decoration, fall 2017

               

Finally, Chihuly In The Forest, plus a delightful dinner

First stop on the forest trail

In late October, I packed the car for a 4-day trip to Eureka Springs. BFF Dot-from-Beebe  took vacation days to go along. A poetry "do" was the instigating motive, but I'd discovered that the nearby Crystal Bridges' CHIHULY IN THE FOREST exhibit was still in place. Bucket list!

Parking was a problem and we finally drove to the upper lot and hailed a shuttle. After standing in line for quite a spell, buying tickets, getting directions, we rode down (or up) an elevator that showed the workings of the thing. Finally, we were on the trail. We took our time and stopped to snap photos of the glass installations.

Dot

Pat

We caught the shuttle back to the car and drove back to Eureka Springs to rest and refresh before a drive to Berryville for dinner at Dan and Susan Krotz’s home. Warm hospitality for strangers-cum-friends, a delicious dinner with delightful conversations about all four of us and our creative activities and output made for a wonderful experience.

Once again, back to Eureka Springs for our second night. You know how it is the first night away: not such a sound sleep. But this night, we slept soundly, partly because of how tired we were from all that walking. What a great day. Two--TWO--great experiences in one day. How lucky can one get at our ages???

               

Sharing a refrigerator with a millennial

Millennial on the left, me in the center, friend/former student on the right

         Syndicated columnist Jim Mullen’s recent piece in the Saline Courier titled “It’s Alive!” inspired this week’s thoughts. His first line read, “My refrigerator is where cucumbers go to die.” He humorously noted all the soft things that had gone hard, all the hard things that had gone soft, plus lots of examples of outdated sauces, multi-type mustards, etc. Funny, funny—and so true for a lot of us.

                I have my—our—own story. Since my 27-year-old grandson moved home from a nine-year stint in Arkadelphia, we’ve shared the fridge. He moved back the first of August and soon bought a sack of orange, apples and “baby” carrots, which went into the right crisper. Most of those are still there.

                After that, the man-turned-health-nut, brought sacks of green grapes and fresh cherries. They landed on the top, right-hand shelf of the fridge. For the longest time, they sat where he placed them. Oh, I'd eat a few of both now and then, until they dried up. I threw them to the squirrels and ants. A bottle of schnapps behind the gallon of whole milk hasn’t been touched. But the milk has—for dry cereal. In fact, he’s on his second gallon.

                As for “my” side, there are two large containers of fresh pears--to eat, to make pear cake and pear bread. My skim milk, cranberry and tomato juices take up more than half the space. Here and there are empty spaces for Billy’s store-made-and-purchased salads.

                In the left-side crisper—I shouldn’t talk—for a long time, I’ve left three different-colored sweet peppers in there. I discovered something Jim Mullen needs to know: Peppers left in the plastic bag from the store stay good for a month!

          As I write, I realize Billy’s food takes up a lot less space than mine does, but he’s not so good at eating what he’s purchased--except for the salads. Perhaps those oranges will rot, the apples will spoil and the carrots will dry up and turn black.

                At some point, for both our sakes, I MUST do something with those fresh pears. I don’t think I could eat them all by Christmas, even if I ate one at every meal between now and then. When can I manage to bake for the holidays? I guess after a trip to Eureka Springs, and before our Thanksgiving get-together. Yes, that’s it. That’s when I’ll get to it. OR, perhaps I could use Billy’s blender and make pear smoothies using his Herbalife powder and ice. I’d better check with him first.

               

Billy in earlier years

Blogging about my reactions to the news

                 How many times a day do I shake my head, or sigh, or make a derisive sound (harrumph!) while reading the daily paper? I’ll refrain from adding those figures to my journal. But what follows are snippets of my notes as I read.

                Janet Carson’s beginning answer to a reader spawned this parody from The Sound of Music, “Black spots on roses. . .” Another reader sent in a photo—black and white—of a plant that looks and sounds a lot like what I’ve called “wild coleus.” Mrs. Carson calls it ‘wild perilla’ and tells the inquirer that it will spread. I can attest to that. It’s all over a section of the back, west property line near the shed. This year, the plants grew taller than I am at 5’2”. The seedpods are long and slender. Shallow-rooted, and purple, they are easy to pull up and add to the burn pile. Next year, I'll be more aware of the nuisance.  

                “. . . the vine that ate the South,” is, to A. Higgins, of the Washington Post via the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette, kudzu. Quite an apt description, right?

                There goes my ATRS check—downward! Why? QualChoice is increasing rates from 9% to 25%!! And the drug insurance is going up from $17.70 this year to $41.10 in 2018. The good news, NOT? Social Security is rising by 2% at last count, about $25 per month.         

                 I didn’t know that Cain’s place of exile was "East of Eden in the land of Nod." The Super Quiz on “Lands” said so.

                In 1911, there was a town in Scott County named Oliver. The post office closed in 1932—this according to Hanley’s Postcard Past.

                Hmm. Praying around the flagpole is merely a protest, according to a reader from Cabot, in a recent letter-to-the-editor. “Jesus said not to pray in public,” he said.

                “Defiance can be a good thing,” says H. Long, in another letter-to-the-editor.

                A poetic phrase from a member of the press: “. . . the slow drip of sordid revelation.” Listen to all that assonance penned by John Brummett.

                Mexico has 32 states, MSM online tells me.

                Russell Baker, writing in William Zinsser’s Inventing the Truth, referred to the 1960s as “that slum of a decade.” (p.29) That’s the decade of my marriage and birth of three children. ‘Twasn’t a slum decade in my view, but my view was parochial; his was cosmopolitan.

                Odd, except to a word nerd: “Gunn fired her gun. . .” by S. Carroll, AD-G. Another: “stymieing,” from a news wire article. An odd form of the root word, but it IS a word.

                A second hmm: Imported marble from China is (supposedly) better and cheaper than Oklahoma-quarried marble. (In the news, AD-G)

                Finally, three quotes from David Brooks, one of my favorite writers, from the New York Times via the AD-G, in a recent column: “. . . Americans have always admired those who made themselves anew.” And, “[America is] not a fortress [but] a frontier.” Lastly, “Where there is division, there are fences.”

                Oh, there were things that made me smile, too, but that's another post.

Reading: Oh, the people you’ll meet and the stuff you will learn

An earlier stack of reading material: some finished, some not

 Lately, two of my blogger/ writer/ reader friends have posted photos on Facebook books they’d read, or were reading, during a given time—a month, say. Except for the one who was reading MY latest book, I didn’t bother to investigate their comments or reviews. I’ve also read where many writers interviewed by the New York Times Book Review read several books at a time.

            With all the books available here, I decided to read one chapter in each of five books during the late evenings before retiring. Since I don’t read in bed, I made a sitting place on the loveseat in front of a tall table lamp. A coffee table holds the books, plus a stack of newer ones to begin as I finish one of the five. All of the ones on deck are by friends.

My eldest child is a voracious reader. At first, he devoured Civil War books. Then he moved to other wars; heavy stuff.

One day, David Shribman, of the Post-Gazette, whose column runs in the Saline Courier, listed the latest and newest books about presidents of the past. I emailed Gordon the list and offered to give him two for Christmas. He chose William Henry Harrison, and Coolidge. I ordered them posthaste.

The Coolidge tome was T-H-I-C-K; I knew a little about him, but I’d never learned about President Harrison. It was T-H-I-N, so I decided to read it.

Oh, the likenesses of the 1840 presidential campaign compared with the one we just lived through: name-calling, protests, riots, fake news and all. Author Gail Collins will surely allow me to quote from her book the following two instances.

If tweeting were possible in 1840, Horace Greeley’s analysis of the Jacksonian Democrats would have sounded like this: “[Blarney [tweet] Before Election] “Dear People! Nobody but us can imagine how pure patriotic, shrewd and sagacious you are. You can’t be humbugged! You can’t be misled! . . . You are always right as a book and nobody can gum you. In short, you are O.K.” (218 characters-- it would have taken two tweets to say it all.)

 But after the American Whigs and 67-year-old William Henry Harrison beat the Democrats and foiled Martin Van Buren’s second term, Greeley’s “tweet” to his party members went like this: "[Blarney After Election] You miserable, despicable, know-nothing, good-for-nothing rascals. . . Led away by Log Cabin fooleries! Gummed by coonskins! . . . Dead drunk on hard cider! Senseless, beastly, contemptible wretches! Go to the devil!”

I wonder what President Trump might have tweeted if he’d lost to Mrs. Clinton.

The American Whig Party, not directly related to the British Whigs, originally formed in opposition to the policies of President Andrew Jackson and his Democratic Party. The Whigs supported the supremacy of the U.S. Congress over the Presidency and favored a program of modernization, banking, and economic protectionism to stimulate manufacturing. It appealed to entrepreneurs, planters, reformers and the emerging urban middle class, but had little appeal to farmers or unskilled workers. It included many active Protestants, and voiced a moralistic opposition to the Jacksonian Indian removal. Party founders chose the "Whig" name to echo the Whigs of the 18th century who fought for independence. (Wikipedia)

So much stuff I didn't know. Thank goodness for books. Oh, and I reviewed this book on Amazon.

The day the "girls" came for breakfast

The "girls" at an earlier breakfast

At six a. m. the alarm sounded—on a Saturday!! “No, no, no . . . I don’ wanna get up,” my retired—and tired—self whined.

“You gotta get up!” my logical, practical self answered. “Remember, you left cleaning the bathroom till this morning. Plus, sweeping the dining room and kitchen. GET UP!”

“Yes, Master Self. Move outta the way then.”

Nine o’clock was three hours away. Surely . . . Yes! By 8:30, I was sitting in the swing on the front porch reading the AD-G—all last-minute tasks accomplished.

Shirley brought a cheese-egg-artichoke casserole and a loaf of blueberry bread. Barbara brought monkey bread. Beverly and Shari brought a bowl of cut watermelon and cantaloupe. I provided the venue and the K-cup, Keurig coffees—decaf, regular, hazelnut and cappuccino. Six of us around the old pedestal table covered with a fall-leaf-motif, ivory cloth. At the table’s edge closest to the windows I’d placed a tall cut-glass vase with reddening (and green) sassafras leaves.

Seconds all around for the casserole and the fruit. I ate two slices of the blueberry bread, while others went for the monkey, pull-apart bread.

After a leisurely repast and visit, I suggested we move to the living room. Cleaning up the dishes meant leaving the plates and silver in a large bowl of soapy water. (Where they stayed till Sunday morning.)

Did I say leisurely? We six women friends and long-ago classmates sat away from the table (which we cannot do in a restaurant) in the “front” room until 11:30! Before breaking up, we were invited to Shirley’s in October and we called out our contributions to the meal.

I said to Barbara, who was the first to arrive, “Don’t let me do this again!” We laughed, but I’d do it in a heartbeat if it meant keeping the group together.

c 2017, PL dba lovepat press

One more day till a personal D-Day arrives

 I wrote a version of this post last Saturday when the world didn’t end, as someone predicted. Eight p. m. Finally, an idea. . . But wait, I needed to refresh my iced root beer. . . Passing into the living room, I realized it was Saturday night, and I always “practiced” the music for the next day’s church service. I turned on the piano light and the overhead one, pulled the bench out, opened the lid and went over the music. I was ready. I moved the hymnal to the door-side table and slipped my offering check inside.

Now, into the kitchen to . . .  I felt hungry. The poets’ group had eaten snacks at 2:30, but it was supper time. Fresh pears, Cheetos and white cheese hit the empty spot in my body, and while typing, I filled the empty spot on this page.

This scenario sets up my modus operandi: I go from room to room and project to project. Friends say they start something and stick with it till it’s finished. Not me! I didn’t refresh my root beer, choosing to save it for later when I would make a float with the frozen yogurt in the freezer.

D-Day is Saturday: The small group of ’54 Bryant High School girls who get together once a month for breakfast grew tired of our latest local venue. The server was harried; folks staying at the motel for the Amplify! concert, made the crowd larger and it included tween-agers. We discussed going back to each other’s homes, but instead of the hostess doing everything, we would “potluck.” I offered Couchwood for September 30.

But during September, I had eight writing-related, time-consuming happenings. Add an eye appointment (scheduled for a year), a monthly Bryant Bunch lunch, and an unplanned-but-must-attend funeral service.

My office, emptied for a ceiling repair, was mostly back in order. DALLYING NO LONGER DEEMED de rigueur! GET IT DONE—NOW!!

Okay! Okay! After I’ve read another chapter in each of the five books on the coffee table, and after I finish reading the day’s state and local papers.

This week, I bought K-cups of decaf and cappuccino, just in case any of the girls preferred them. Also, a new fall-color throw rug and a new runner for the buffet. I redressed the tops of both china cabinets, adding two new pitchers to one and a fall-ish cookie jar to the other.

Today, I’ve swept cat hair and cobwebs from under every piece of furniture, washed throw rugs, moved a plant to a bathroom shelf and made the living room presentable. Saturday morning, I’ll blow (or sweep) myriad oak leaves from the front porch so that the new pots of mums at the driveway will shine as the “girls” arrive.

The only other project there’ll be time for is to straighten up the top of the handmade library table that’s been passed down from Granddaddy Noah Couch. No telling what I’ll discover at the bottoms of the stacks of papers, clippings, and other writing detritus.

Wish me luck.

c 2017, PL dba lovepat press