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?

OTHERS SAY.......... wisdom captured in my journal

Google Images: OTHERS SAY (!) (But isn't it a pretty picture?)

 

 

         In late January of 2011, I wrote a piece with the same title as this post. I believe I’ll use the identical idea—with different “sayings”--these four-years-and-one-month later. Thanks to James (Jim) Vandergrift for saving and sending me a CD of columns lost when my computer decided to quit.

         I’ll begin with the latest and work backwards. A friend on Facebook just posted this. She was at a Laundromat waiting for her clothes to dry. “It’s warm here until someone opens and clothes the door.”
 

        I asked her if that were a Freudian slip, and she answered, “I didn’t dry my Freudian Slip on this trip…”
 

        Then there’s the Republican senator from Cabot who made a huge grammatical slip: “… would have went.”
 

        From an obit: “…following a long health battle, Heaven welcomed one hell of a woman… (86). She did not lose her battle with illness, she simply bored (sic) of it, dismissed it and chose to reunite [with her loved ones]… [She] was as tough as nails and as soft as silk, and those who knew her best knew both sides.”
 

        From another obit: “She (94) and three others sang as the ‘Birdsong Songbirds’ on the radio during high school.”
 

        From a third obit: “[H]e was best known for his rose-colored glasses, and [he] resided in an ivory tower where all his loved ones were seen as infallible and just, misleading them into believing they were as marvelous as he thought.” (no age given)
 

       And yet another: “R. L. H. …finally retired to dinner with the Founding Fathers ….”
 

       From one of my favorite AD-G features: “This is so cynical, my eyebrows frosted.” –Carolyn Hax.
 

      One day, the lottery director told AD-G reporter S. Wire, “We are at the mercy of the jackpot gods.”
 

      “Utter evil can easily claim what genuine righteousness struggles to attain.” – John Brummett, AD-G.
 

      “She’ll catch you, catch you, catch you!” –over and over, the cardinal sang as I filled the birdbath with fresh water.
 

       “I put my heart and my soul into my work, and have lost my mind in the process.” –Vincent Van Gogh, AD-G cryptoquote.

       “We cannot rewrite history, but we can right history.” – C. Graham, one of the Friendship Nine who, in 1960, was convicted (and served a month of hard labor) for trespassing—sitting at a whites-only lunch counter in South Carolina. AD-G/ AP – M. Weiss.
 

        “Lucky bamboo: three stalks for happiness, five for wealth, seven for health, or 21 for a powerful, all-purpose blessing.” (favorable feng shui) –L. Reich, AP.
 

       Another meaning for “mother.” A reader asked Heloise why vinegar got “floaties” in it. Here is part of Heloise’s reply. “The ‘floaties’ you see are nothing more than ‘mother,’ which is not harmful at all… Mother is caused by natural bacteria that may develop after a bottle of vinegar is opened. Most vinegar we buy is pasteurized. Some other vinegars (nonpasteurized or homemade) may develop feathery, floating objects. There’s no harm in eating it, or you can strain it out and the remaining vinegar is OK to use…Add a teaspoon or so of vinegar into a large vase of flowers to help them last longer.” (AD-G).

                There.  Now you see the wisdom and thoughts of others that spoke to me as I read. May it give you pleasure, too.



Chutzpah gets O.K. from California columnist

 

 

                Of the many things I learned early, two of them have served me well. One, a healthy, almost manic, respect for my elders. It was always, “Mr. Kane, Mrs. Weger, Brother Jordan, Dr. Thorn, President Carter.” Even as an adult, I continued this until asked by a pastor to, “Just call me Carlton.” To this day, I still hail my school principals as Mr. Weed and Mr. Merrick. And even though I‘ve had a different name for 25 years, Mr. Weed still calls me Mrs. Paulus.

The second thing I do fervently is read the state and local papers. As I’ve waded into the waters of writing, I’ve gotten a tad bolder regarding those “far-off” folks whose work appears therein. They must be ‘way smarter than I am to be where they are, and I’m a nobody from Nowhere, USA.

But, as I’ve aged, I’ve realized that if one doesn’t expand one’s horizons, one misses out on a lot of good stuff. Therefore, I’ve sent letters to Charles Allbright, John Brummett, Frank Fellone, and the Voices Page editor.

I even asked Gene Lyons to “friend” me on Facebook! What moxie! Turns out, his son works in Benton. And the reason I write a column each week is because I answered a notice from Editor Joe May wanting news from the surrounding communities, such as Arkadelphia, where we lived. I answered him, not with a phone call as suggested, but with an actual column. That shameless act resulted in uncounted weekly appearances in The Standard––for which I am grateful.

One day last week, after reading a humorous column in the AD-G, I ramped up the moxie to chutzpah, googled the columnist for the Sacramento Bee, found his email, and (gasp!) sent him a request for permission to allude to his piece in this week’s column and blog post.

"Your column, reprinted in the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette, "Martini without salt, please" 

... was SO funny--and so apropos of the current diet/ slender/
healthy/ etc. culture. My question: may I use (quote) parts of it for
my weekly column and blog post?
I am a healthy, salt-and sugar-eating 78-year-old woman whose dad
lived to be 90 and whose mom lived to 93. Even during my divorce, my
blood pressure, the doc said, was that of a 10-year-old. What say you?
Of course, I'll give attribution.
Thanks in advance--either way.

In no time, he zipped back this answer: “Have fun with the reprint, and avoid Pall Malls, dear. Go Razorbacks!”

Woo-hoo! Brazenness paid off! Jack Ohman, 54,—editorial cartoonist for the Sacramento (CA) Bee—in his weekly column, set us up for a visit to his new doctor because his blood pressure added up to 303.
  “[He] was very nice and very, very thin. He lightly inquired about my diet, and I assured him that I enjoyed tasty food. He wrinkled his nose and allowed as how he didn’t like pork, red meat, salt, sugar, or anything that came in a can or a package.
“As many of you know,” our writer goes on, “this allows you to eat the following diet:    
* Brown paper bags (unsalted).
*Kale puffs.
*Pea gravel.
*Any non-GMO vegetable beginning with A.
*Two cups of lemon peel.
*Nothing currently available in restaurants.

            Instead of kicking up his BP med, the doc said, “I’d like you to get back on your bike, not be around salt or any salted bicycles, and try to relax. Do you have any stress in your life?”

What Ohman answers is too long for this post, but I laughed out loud. Google this funny man at the SacBee, find his column for Feb. 10, called something like “Pall Malls, sofa and a martini.” You’ll get a kick out of it.

            Happy eating! For me? I’ll stick to salted everything—except bicycles. My blood pressure is okay. But, because it's Lent, I'll cut down to only one piece of chocolate a day.

The entwining of two holidays

  How to combine Valentine’s Day and Presidents’ Day? Go to my book collection of compendiums,

of course. ONE THOUSAND BEAUTIFUL THINGS, compiled by Marjorie Barrows, published 1947; a Peoples Book Club, Inc. selection, Chicago, 1948. This volume belonged to Harold & Mary Louise Scott, Conway AR, but it was in Mom’s library. Harold and Mom were siblings. How it came to be in this house is a mystery.

GEORGE WASHINGTON’S PRAYER FOR THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA:

 “Almighty God: we make our earnest prayer that Thou wilt keep the United States in Thy holy protection; that Thou wilt incline the hearts of the citizens to cultivate a spirit of subordination and obedience to government . . . . And finally that Thou wilt most graciously be pleased to dispose us all to do justice, to love mercy and to demand ourselves with that charity, humility and pacific temper of mind which were the characteristics of the Divine Author of our blessed religion, and without a humble imitation of whose example in these things we can never hope to be a happy nation. Grant our supplication, we beseech Thee, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

ABRAHAM LINCOLN:

“I remember my mother’s prayers and they have always followed me. They have clung to me all my life.”

“I have never had a policy. I have simply tried to do what seemed best each day, as each day came.”

WOODROW WILSON:

"When I look back on the processes of history, when I survey the genesis of America, I see this written over every page: that the nations are renewed from the bottom, not from the top; that the genius which springs up from the ranks of unknown men is the genius which renews the youth and energy of the people.”

 Now, to one of the great love stories of the ages, a poem (Spoon River form: spoken from the dead) by Edgar Lee Masters:

ANN RUTLEDGE:

 

Out of me unworthy and unknown

The vibrations of deathless music: 

‘With malice toward none, with charity for all.’

Out of me the forgiveness of millions toward millions, 

And the beneficent face of a nation

Shining with justice and truth. 

I am Ann Rutledge who sleeps beneath these weeds, 

Beloved in life of Abraham Lincoln,

Wedded to him, not through union, 

But through separation. 

Bloom forever, O Republic, 

From the dust of my bosom!”

 

LOVE’S PHILOSOPHY

                             – a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley.

The Fountains mingle with the River

And the Rivers with the Ocean, 

The winds of Heaven mix for ever

With a sweet emotion; 

Nothing in the world is single; 

All things by a law divine

In one spirit meet and mingle.

Why not I with thine?–

See the mountains kiss high Heaven

And the waves clasp one another;

No sister-flower would be forgiven

If it disdained its brother,

And the sunlight clasps the earth

And the moonbeams kiss the sea: 

What are all these kissings worth

If thou kiss not me?

 Happy holidays to all of you.