Blogging about a busy weekend

Photo by Thurman Couch, Pasadena, CA

 

Last weekend was an aberration, an anomaly. Thank goodness, it’s now history, and I can begin living the rest of my life normally. Until next year at this same time.

The city of Conway began celebrating a week called “Arts Fest” last Saturday, and as part of that, the Faulkner County Library, with Nancy Allen as coordinator, planned another Authors’ Fair for the afternoon—from one till four p.m. Set-up time was thirty minutes beforehand.

Writer-friend Dot-from-Beebe and I drove over and pulled up to a spot close to the door. I had more to schlep, uh, haul in than she did, since I was hawking two books. Which meant a floor easel, a large poster (from the first time I participated), plus table decorations, candy and books (of course). Dot was selling FOUR books, but this was her first Fair. She brought her stuff in a handled box.

Once our space was assigned, we set about designing our displays, plus the out-sized name tags for the table, large, framed photos of the books to be featured, as well as portable easels to hold them.

Twenty-four long tables—four to a side--were squeezed together or turned at an angle, so that the only way for the vendors (of whom I was one, though I never, ever called myself such before) to “escape” was to walk through the “stacks” until we could find a way out of the maze. Once, I got down on all fours and “walked” under the table to see my display from the front and to tape the nametag to the cloth.

At 1 p.m., the traffic began. And, unlike three years ago when the Fair was in its first year, it never let up. A high-school girl, who reminded me of my great-niece Marley, was reporting for “Arts Fest” itself. She wore a Hendrix College shirt, so I engaged her about that. Other college-age couples—one from Missouri—came by, mostly interested in how we got started writing, etc. One woman in a group of three read the back cover material of our books, but went on without buying.

Several reporters and one Little Rock TV station were represented. The latter interviewed one writer for quite a spell. UCA was represented by several folks, but my writing mentor at Hemingway-Pfeiffer’s June writing retreat was not there after all.

Finally, a childhood friend who lives in Conway came in as promised. Her car had died, so a cheerleader-granddaughter drove her over and waited in the car. Mae and I “caught up,” as they say. She bought two sets of books—four in all—to send to her siblings AFTER she read them. 

Anna came in once. This child who had cheered at the football game the previous night, and then attended the dance afterwards, was sleep-deprived, but seeing that Mae was not ready to leave, again left the area.

About quitting time, Anna returned. This time, she gathered Mae’s things, took the books in hand and gently guided her grandmother out. Mae was headed out, but her face was turned to me and waved. “Come see me,” she called.

A fun experience and fifty dollars to show for it. Dot and I treated ourselves at Arby’s before heading back to Beebe. The pumpkin milkshake and brisket sandwich hit the spot. 

 

 

 

Ah! the sacredness of morning's quiet: a retrospective

Greye in the back "square" quiet place--PL, '15

 

Ahh! Sunday—at last. The first day of the week, and the first day I haven’t had to go somewhere since last Monday. “But there’s church,” you might think. No, I went to church yesterday—Saturday—for a worship-service funeral.

 

On my way to retrieve the newspapers this morning, I noticed the zinnias and lantana were already wilted, and the sun wasn’t even out. Nothing to do but get the hose and water them, since there seemed to be no help forthcoming in the weather department. Taking the hose back to the faucet afterwards, I noticed all the south-side mums were either wilted, grass-overtaken, or dead. So I watered the poor things, plus the marvelously-healthy Bermuda. Tomorrow….

 

Back on the front porch, I separated the adverts from both papers, took them inside to the recycling box, then proceeded to read—journal and pen at the ready. Sunday traffic is usually low in the morning; I was expecting a lovely, cool, quiet start to the day.

 

Not gonna happen. The neighbor man, dressed in what looked to be church clothes, drove into his driveway and proceeded to vacuum out the family car. Or at least, he opened the passenger door and turned on something with a motor--a generator, perhaps? At the same time, his dog began its incessant barking.

 

Not in the mood for these obtrusive elements, I gathered all my paraphernalia and betook myself back through the house to the backyard “square,” the place where the picnic table--brought over for the July reunion—still sat. Under the spreading chestnu… hackberry tree it was, so the table was not only the repository of crispy, brown leaves, but also folded lawn chairs and stuff from the last repotting session.

 

A rag lay nearby, so I cleaned the plastic cloth still there--anchored with old, old porcelain light fixtures--stood the lawn chairs against the shed wall, and wiped down the rest of the table and the benches.

 

Though there were more back neighbors, counting those on Amelia Street, it was blessedly quiet.

 

Which way to face for my morning reading? Neither direction was what I’d call a beauty spot: on the south was a near side of the shed, dead yarrow and nearly-dead asters in front, and beyond, the hedge-row. Greenery, at least.

 

Facing north, which I chose, was the neighbor’s newish privacy fence, and the huge hackberry trunk with privet and Yellow Rose of Texas foliage beneath and beyond it. Way off, across--but close to--Couchwood Street, an enormous pile of orangey, red-clay dirt desecrated the once-pristine hayfield. But today, no machines roared and beeped. Ah! As the old hymn goes, “Blessed quietness, Holy quietness…” Except for the birds, for which I’m grateful.

 

Mid-morning, with only coffee for sustenance so far, my tummy grumbled, so I toasted and buttered two slices of raisin-cinnamon bread, grabbed the last cup of mandarin oranges, and a handful of mixed nuts and called that breakfast. Soon, the neighborhood began to stir. Doors opening and closing, voices, dogs barking. It was time to move inside.

 

May we all have quiet mornings this autumn—if we need them.  And we do. Don’t we? I do.



Animals: trivia, oddities and information

          Someone said once to make your reading work for you. That’s what I’m doing for this post.
ALLIGATORS—even in the wild—may lay 30 to 50 eggs, but only about 2% of the hatchlings make it to adulthood. (D. Thomason, Hot Springs Sentinel Record, 9.4.’15)

BEES cannot drink while flying (unlike hummingbirds) and so must land to feed.

Three different BEETLES attack pine trees: the Southern pine beetle, the IPS engraver beetle and the turpentine beetle. (J. Carson, Arkansas Democrat-Gazette)

The difference between BLOODHOUNDS: one is a trailing dog who keeps his head up to sniff; one is a tracking dog which puts his nose to the ground and follows footsteps. Both can be trained (field work) for search and rescue and narcotics detections and apprehension. (A. Wallworth, AD-G, April 2, 2012)

A BREED OF CHICKEN is Sicilian Buttercup.

CANADA GEESE defecate 92 times a day. (AD-G)

“If CATS are not fed at a regular location, their instinct is to roam.”  (J. Franks, a feline rescue volunteer)
[I hoped this was true, because once, I left eight feral cats without any food for two weeks. When I returned, six were still here. But how many squirrels and birds met their deaths during that period? Another time, I left for ten days; the cats were still here. The third time, I left for a week, and only three had persevered.]

COD prey on lobsters.

DOG breeds I’ve never heard of until now: “basenji” and “Chinese hairless crested.”

DOMESTICATED animals define what it is to be a human.”  (S. Brooks, assistant professor of equine genetics, Cornell University.)

DRUM (FISH) are native to Arkansas, a gray, freshwater species. Not usually sought by fishermen. They are bottom feeders that eat other fish and insects. (R. J. Smith, AD-G)

  FEMALE LOBSTERS are hens.

Several years ago. FOUR U. S. ZOOS housed giant Pandas: Zoo Atlanta, San Diego, Memphis and Washington D. C.

A newly-discovered FROG SPECIES, paedophryne amanuensis, is the world’s smallest vertebrate … less than half the diameter of a US dime. It lives in rainforest litter. (Science Now, January 23, 2012)

On land, GEESE are a gaggle; in the air, they are a skein.

GIANT PANDAS in the wilds of China number 1600, with 300 more in captivity, 108 of those which were at a breeding center at the Chengdu Panda Base, at the time this article came out.

GORILLAS are given the same kind of birth control as women and are given the same pregnancy test. (L. L. Williams, AD-G)

GREENHEAD DUCKS are known by some as “green timber.” (from an obit)

The HALIBUT is the largest flatfish.

A 68-pound rare KEMP’S RIDLEY SEA TURTLE was released in the Gulf of Mexico after a trip---supposedly via the powerful Gulf Stream-- and was found in the Netherlands in 2008. After three years of rehab, he was flown to Miami and trucked to Sarasota, outfitted with a satellite tracking system allowing scientists the ability to monitor his travels. (December 28, 2011)

 

 

Birds, birds, birds! And other wild (and tame) life

Google images

 I’ve enjoyed watching the wildlife around Couchwood lately. A rabbit has taken up abode somewhere on the south side—maybe in one of the neighbor’s yards, but it frolics in my yard, too. One afternoon, it ran hither and yon—“hither” being in what-we-used-to-call the "tennis court," and “yon,” into the lower hedge row. This is the third sighting of the animal. Better one rabbit than a hill full of black cats, like last year.

Hummingbirds have found the feeder hanging outside the dining-room window. One little thing seemed to be eating from the bottom of the feeder. It flew and lit on a beautyberry limb--the first time I’d seen one actually light--returned to the unusual place and sipped before flying, its white tail feathers fanning out.

And the robins! I wonder how many families of robins nest in the trees in the south yard. One day, I looked out and seven birds lined the rim of the birdbath. All had speckled breasts: they were juveniles. One bathed, the others perched and occasionally sipped. Another fluttered around the others, pecked at one like in a game of tag. Or “king of the hill.” They reminded me of a bunch of boys vying for position, staking out their territory. Soon, a blue jay called and flew in. None of the robins moved. Then a hummingbird flew by, and soon a wasp circled the bunch. Gradually, all dispersed.

And then there’s the neighbor’s dog. The worst thing (for me) Corey could have done was build a pen for it outside. Apparently, the mutt doesn’t like it, because last weekend while I sat outside, it yapped continually.

I hope you enjoy the cooler weather. I certainly do.

Snippets from my journal: blogging

As a blogger once said, “Make your reading work for you,” so I am lifting items from my journal that began August 8. Parentheses are my “comments” either before or afterwards, brackets denote the source.

*(Oh, gee.) “Paul Krugman, NYTimes: “Talking nonsense is what you have to do to get anywhere in
today’s Republican Party.” [from an op-ed in the AD-G.]

*Headline: “Tired 1853 home gets some love.” Within the article, “… home peeks out …” and “But its bones were good.” (personification) [Article on the Wm. E. Woodruff house in Little Rock, written by N. Wentling, AD-G]

*Sri Lanka used to be Serendip.

* Watered the dogwood and the zinnia bed using the new, $65 hose (industrial quality, after I’d asked Daughter to buy the longest and best quality) and the yellow, twirly sprinkler.

* Pictures of this-year’s teachers in the local paper. I knew only 3 of them. I retired 21 years ago, so that’s why. My colleagues have retired, too. Oh, two of those teachers were former students.

* (Good first line for an interior monologue story) “I couldn’t move away if I wanted to.”

* (Hotter inside than outside) 72 degrees! Seeing a hummingbird at the feeder for the 3^rd time, I added some cooled nectar. A lizard between the screen and the glass—for the past two days—is nowhere to be seen. (Why I keep the windows down.)

* Metaphor for ridding the Delta of drugs and guns: “pulling weeds out of our neighbor’s backyards.” [news article about Blytheville drug stings]

*Australia is a major coal exporter. [M. Innis, NYT/AD-G]

* Names – Nearvonna, Flinn (97), Annjanette, Tap (male), Edgar Gaston & Vivian—1918-era, Bowen, Charleszella.

* A hummingbird flew around the filled feeder, but didn’t stop and sup. (Darn!)

*Southside in Independence County is Arkansas’s newest city.

*Surnames – Pitstick, Spain, Gray, Jolly, Pace, Plum, Roseburrow. (Good word-bank for a story.)

* On porch swing with different pillows. The old ones were “watered” with the zinnias last night.

* Four more days till school begins. Then the early-morning traffic will pick up. Cats went out late last night and I went to bed. They seemed eager to get back in this morning.

* “… anguished, angered and ashamed …”—Ban Ki-Moon, UN Secretary-General. (Why didn’t I write what made him thus? I seemed only interested in the alliteration.)

* “ … the working poor who don’t have health care.” [J. Kasich, GOP presidential candidate] (This describes grandson Billy, now 25.)

*Places in Arkansas – Douglas, 1914; Eight Mile – 1915; Fair Oaks.

* One-hundred years ago, Argenta––which became North Little Rock––schools opened September 20. New students had to have a permit from the superintendent beforehand. [OTHER DAYS feature, AD-G] (What a change from today!)

* “Summer lasts 37 more days,” Frank Fellone wrote on August 15.

And may the remainder of your summer be filled with hummingbirds, robins, wrens, blue jays and cooler temperatures.

   c 2015 PL            

 

               

 

 

 

 

 

 

               

 

               

 

 

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End of sequel chapter and a look into a writer's group

END OF SEQUEL CHAPTER

and a look into the Hot Springs Novel Writers

 (concluded after two earlier posts to the blog)

        When Mr. Bloom walked to the front door, I followed, leaving the other ballots and the pad with all the votes on the table. “’Night, ma’am,” he said, doffing his gray beret.

* * *

         I had just finished reviewing my notes and deciding what else to add to the article, when Liddy tossed a memo on my desk. “Write this up, will you please, Celley?”

        The message read,

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

The five new directors of the St. Luke school board elected yesterday are Crassie R., Jerman B., Hulet P., Flossie M. and Quint W. Superintendent H. sends his thanks to all who participated in the election.

I gasped. “Liddy! Liddy!”

 

She was on her way back from the break room. “What? What?”

 

“None of these names were on the list I transcribed last night!” A flash of understanding suddenly flooded my brain. “Something’s rotten in Denmark and in St. Luke,” I told her. “The H.s obviously conspired and chose whom they wanted, thinking no one would know the difference. No wonder they treated us like country bumpkins. They had no intention of electing a school board. And they obviously had forgotten about me.”                 

 END of chapter

***

PAT HERE: Some of the details in these three episodes were changed for this serial, but the essence of the chapter remains.

 

While waiting on the published book, my thanks to Bill White, Bud Kenny, who has published his travelogue, FOOTLOOSE IN AMERICA, which can be found on Amazon with a free e-book edition if you hurry (see picture of cover below), and Gin Hartnett—all of the Hot Springs Novel Writers group for the astute critiques of both my book and Bud’s. Bill has 5  e-books available on his website at wgwbooks.com,  and we are working through another of his memoirs.

 

This group has always been open to new folks truly interested in writing who are amenable to suggestions for improving their work. Several writers from the area have attended the sessions a time or two, then dropped out when our method of critiquing didn’t fit either their personality or their goals in writing. Really, we’re a kind and charitable bunch of folks, but we want to send out to the world the best products possible.

 

ADVICE to those who get in too big a hurry to hold a book in their hands: Contract with a publisher/ editor who will actually edit (if you haven’t already had several sets of eyes read your manuscript) your work--for a price, of course. Most publishers only print what is given to them. At least, ask for a proof copy so YOU can edit it once more. Or even more than once.

 

Which is what I'll be doing for several days to come. The proof of HER FACE IN THE GLASS as an e-book is on my new Paperwhite Kindle as I write.

 

 

 

 

Second installment, "The Election"

SECOND INSTALLMENT OF "The Election" from HER FACE IN THE GLASS,  a sequel

to A Journey of Choice. [Names have been shortened on purpose.]

 

          Mrs. H. nodded; he passed the mic to the person on his left. “Go!”

           “Hello. My name is Flint B. . . .” He talked really slow. “. . . and I want to be on the school board so I can help us get some new bleachers for the band. It’s a crying shame that our kids have to risk their necks and their instruments climbing on those rickety––”

       Ding! “Next!” Mrs. H. reset the timer each time her husband said, ‘Next.’

     “Hello,” said the mother with two small children. “I am Darling D., and I would like your vote. I think we need to start a child-care program in this district.” She shushed the baby on her shoulder, and ran her hand across her own nose. “I would be willing––”

     Ding! “Next!”

      “Hi, y’all, I’m Guy O’N. from Mountain Ridge. I’d like to see better school bus drivers out our way. You should see how they drive those winding, narrow roads. The kids say they bounce––”

     Ding! “Moving right along, now. Next!”

       After a while I quit listening. At three o’clock, as the person next to me finished speaking, the final school bell rang.

     Mr. H. took the microphone. “Mark your ballots and turn them in as you leave. Mrs. H. and I will count the votes this evening and she will call the five who are elected. We’ll send a notice to the Banner as well. Thank you for coming.”          

     I was the last to leave and he snagged me.

     “Will you stay and do the counting as my wife calls out the names and numbers?” he said to me, apparently thinking I was some student’s mother. “I need to go to the office and see about things there. Thank you.” He blew a kiss to his wife, and, dodging a student, exited the room.

     Obviously, the man didn’t know I was a reporter. But, hey! This would mean I had a scoop. I stayed. Mrs. H. made room at the table and pushed a pad and a pen over to me.

     “All right, now. List the names down the page and the number of votes out beside each name.” She picked up a ballot. “Number one is T.––he gets three votes.” She watched me write down ‘T.––I I I.’ “Second choice is J. He gets two votes.”

     ‘J.––I I.’    

     “Third is G. He gets one point.”

     ‘G.––I.’

     She wadded the ballot and looked around to toss it in the trash can. Seeing none, she called to the janitor who was sweeping the far end of the room. “Mr. B., will you bring me a trash can?” He did and she mashed the ballot, balled it up and threw it in. I thought she might  chew and swallow it.

     “Next ballot,” she said. “F., three . . .” She waited. “B., two . . . G. one.”

     Again, she wadded the ballot into a tiny ball and tossed it away.

     “Ready? C., three . . . P., two  . . . W., one. My goodness,” she exclaimed. “What if everyone gets a vote and no one has more than three?” I shrugged; she continued.

     “Next. H., three . . . G., two . . . D., one.” She looked at me. “Would you mind taking over? I must run to the ladies’ room.”

     “Sure.” I took the next ballot while her heels click-clicked across the concrete. At last, some names reappeared. G., three . . . F., two . . . J., one. Still, no one had more than five votes.

     I don’t know how long I worked on those blasted ballots, but Mrs. Secretary never came back. Soon Mr. B. said, “Miss, five more minutes and it’s my leaving time.”

     Only six ballots remained uncounted. G. had ten votes, J., ten, and G. had risen to ten. The nearest was F. with seven. For some reason, I stuffed the counted ballots into my bag. Mrs. H. would have to finish the next morning.

     When Mr. B. walked to the front door, I followed, leaving all the materials on the table. “’Night, ma’am,” he said, doffing his duffer’s hat.

 

TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT WEEK.

c 2015--PL.