The first book in this batch is one I've passed over at least a dozen times. Then, when my stepsister, Donna, included it in a big bag of books she gave me a couple months ago, I read all but one of the others before finally picking up this one. And don't I feel stupid for that now. I had judged the book by even less than its cover--the title turned me off--and it's a wonderful story.
A character in the book I was reading earlier today spoke about a time in her youth when she had stood by, watching, as one girl beat up another one. She regretted that she hadn't had the courage to step in and break up the fight, and then she wondered why no one else had had the courage either. A large group of young people had formed a ring around the two girls to watch the fight. Nobody tried to stop it.
Now, that's horrible, and I would feel noble, perhaps, if I could write a knowledgeable post about group psychology. I could end it with some inspirational thoughts that might stick with a reader and one day inspire him or her to "do the right thing" when confronted with a situation similar to the one described in the book. That would be great.
But that isn't the way my mind works.
When I read that passage, the file retriever in my head raced down the aisle, yanked open a drawer, flipped quickly through a few manila folders, and practically skipped back to me, saying, "Remember this?" I did remember, though I hadn't thought of it in years, and I knew immediately that I wanted to write about it before I forget it again.
It happened about 1959, when I was in high school. Girls wearing full skirts and bobby socks and boys dressed in plaid shirts and jeans mingled in small groups on the lawn in front of the school, laughing, talking, enjoying the East Texas sunshine, waiting for the bell to ring and signal that the lunch break was over.
Suddenly there were shouts: "Fight! Fight!" Just like in the book, a ring of students began to form about three-deep around the two boys who were fighting. The ring actually expanded in diameter a couple of times as the crowd drew back to avoid getting in the way of a flying fist. I was not part of that ring. As chicken then as I am now, I stood back and watched from a safe distance.
Over the ruckus surrounding the fight, I heard a murmur begin, softly at first, then louder as the voices became more urgent: "Forston. FORston. FORSTON!" Mr. Forston was the vice-principal. Unlike the principal, who was usually willing to negotiate, Mr. Forston took no prisoners. I watched as he emerged from the front door and strode purposefully toward the fight.
"Uh-oh," I thought. "Those boys are going to get it."
I saw some of the watchers look over their shoulders as Mr. Forston approached. They knew he was coming, but they didn't move out of the circle, nor did they stop shouting exhortations of "Get him!" or "Hit him again!" Mr. Forston had to force his way into that ring. Only after physically pulling people apart by their shoulders was he able to get between them, and I knew from the determination on his face that there would be hell to pay.
At last he broke through. I could see the top of his head as he entered the center of that ring, then stopped and did a slow, 360-degree turn. It must have been a shock to him to discover that he was in that space all by himself.
You see, those two boys who had been fighting were both more afraid of Mr. Forston than they were angry at each other. As soon as they knew he was getting near, they simply stopped fighting, stepped back in opposite directions, and disappeared into the ring of students that had encircled them. If this event had had an umpire, that's the moment when he would have yelled, "Safe!"
I suppose I should feel a little embarrassed that reading about an issue serious enough to cause a character to feel regret and emotional distress years after it happened prompted me to tell this particular story. But, hey, humor and quick wits are also important aspects of the human condition, don't you think?
The choices might seem endless, but it's rather easy to narrow them down. Right off the bat I can rule out any kind of fun activity away from home, because I'm pretty sure that all of the people I might choose to accompany me on any kind of Saturday morning adventure have already immersed themselves in weekend chores and errands or in spending quality time with their significant others.
As for solo activities, there's no place I really need or want to go by myself today. I ran all my errands earlier in the week, so I can cross those off my list. I could go shopping, I suppose, but the only places I enjoy shopping just for the fun of it are bookstores, office supply stores, and craft and hobby shops, all of which feed my addictive hobbies and take a bite out of my budget.
That brings me to the hobbies themselves. I've already spent time browsing the Internet this morning, so, even though I'll probably do it again later, it's an uninteresting prospect at the moment. I always enjoy photo-editing, genealogy research, reading, and working jigsaw puzzles or logic puzzles, but I do those things all the time. They're low-energy activities, and I'm feeling a little peppy today.
I could do housework, of course; the need for that never ends. Running the vacuum cleaner would be an excellent use of my time, but the weather is supposed to cool off late tonight, which means I might open my windows tomorrow. If so, then more dust could blow in, so what's the sense in vacuuming now?
Levi desperately needs a haircut. This would be a good day to do that, but it usually takes me three to four hours, and I have to keep Gimpy in his crate the entire time. Otherwise, he pops up every five minutes and tempts Levi with a tennis ball. I actually kind of enjoy the haircutting experience, but I hate to ruin Levi's day. And Gimpy's.
My own hair could use a trim, too. Maybe I'll get out my barber scissors and cut off an inch of split ends. After that I'll need to shower away all the prickly hair stubs that have fallen on my shoulders. Once I've showered and dressed in clean clothes, I'll be ready to go out and do something fun--that is, if something fun should come to mind between now and then. Being all fresh and clean, I wouldn't want to do anything that would make me break a sweat.
It used to be simple to decide how to spend a Saturday. I loved that first free day after the work week, loved the idea that my time was my own and I was free to do with it whatever I wanted. I'm certainly not complaining, but now that I'm retired, Saturday doesn't seem special anymore. I kind of miss that.
*******
After briefly browsing my iTunes collection for a Saturday Song Selection that fits today's post, I quickly gave up (because that's just the kind of mood I'm in) and went directly to YouTube, where I searched for songs about, well, Saturday. There are quite a few of them. I've never heard this particular one before, but I thought its melody was prettier than any of the other Saturday-themed songs I found. Also, its lyrics are simple and a bit confusing, much like my own thought processes today. A perfect choice.
Almost exactly a year ago I wrote about my sister's gift to me of our great-grandmother's bible. I couldn't have been more thrilled than I was to have that precious book, more than a century old, in my home. It didn't take long, though, to realize I was ill-equipped to care for it properly.
When the bible was left out where it could be seen and appreciated, I worried that household dust would harm it. But the bible is large and heavy, so I knew that if I wrapped it up and put it a closet or a drawer, I wouldn't be inclined to take it out and look at it often.
Then I got lucky.
My stepsister's husband is a talented woodworker. Earlier this year he offered to build something for me, and I asked if he could build a box to hold Grandma's bible. He could, he did, and it's more beautiful than I could have imagined.
The bible now rests safely inside its custom-made box on the end of my dresser. I love to run my fingers across the smooth surface of the quilted-cherry box top, and I lift that lid frequently, both to look at the bible and to get a good whiff of the sawdust scent that lingers there.
The newer treasure, like the antique one it holds, is an ever-present reminder of the ties that bind our family across miles and generations. That's pretty special, if you ask me.
Today marks the first anniversary of my photo blog, "A One-Pic Pony." By posting a different photo every day for an entire year, I've proved to myself that I'm better than that girl I used to be, the one who started projects but often failed to complete them. Oh, that girl still lives, I'm afraid, but this time the old woman who inhabits the rest of my body has prevailed.
My interest in photography came late in life, when I was already 64 years old, and I never would have imagined that it would turn into such a passion. My love of taking pictures was born with the purchase of my first digital camera (the one I still use), which gave me the freedom to screw up as many shots as necessary in order to get one good one. That was six years ago, and I still take pictures almost every day.
How I envy today's young moms who have digital cameras and cell-phone cameras at the ready to capture photos of their children. Sometimes we owned a camera when my girls were young, and sometimes we didn't. Even when we had one, we used it sparingly, because the cost of photo-processing wasn't always in our budget. I cherish the snapshots I do have of my children, but there were so many other priceless images of them that linger only in my head.
I can still see a tiny girl bathing in the kitchen sink as sunlight flows through the window behind her and frames her silhouette in golden light. I see the profile of another small girl, her short blonde hair falling in soft curls around her face. Dressed in bright, primary colors, she squats close to the ground and gently extends one chubby hand to touch a puppy's nose. I wish I'd had a digital camera to capture those images.
I do know I'm not nearly ready to give up on the photo blog, even if there are days when no one sees it but me. The process of selecting, editing, and posting a daily photo is a joyful experience, and I've become addicted to that little rush of pleasure. I shoot up--and down and all around--in living color, and it's a habit I can live with.
Clearly, I've been doing more reading than writing lately. Here's the most recent batch of books that ate up all my spare time:
Joppa: A Story of Love by Peggy Poe Stern
Served Cold: Mountain Justice by Peggy Poe Stern
The Crazy Old Lady in the Attic by Kathleen Valentine
The Way Back Home by Barbara Freethy
Ask Mariah by Barbara Freethy
Some Kind of Wonderful by Barbara Freethy
For a description and reviews of any of these books,
click on its image above.
The books in this particular group are what I like to call "brain candy." They're light, and they won't stick to your ribs, but they're tasty enough to make you want to sit there and snack on them until they're all gone. (If you've ever had an unexplained craving for marshmallow Peeps, you know exactly what I mean.)
I'd been out of bed for about twenty minutes when the telephone rang. At that time of the morning I expected either bad news or a telemarketer. Instead, it was my daughter Kim, sounding unusually chipper for the early hour. Kim moved to a new house a couple of weeks ago and is still getting settled. "Mom," she said, "my whole house is surrounded by hot air balloons. Do you want to come over and bring your camera?"
You bet I did.
I brushed my teeth, combed my hair, pulled on yesterday's clothes, called the dogs back in the house, changed the batteries in my camera, and took off. Kim's new house is only about ten minutes away, but I worried the whole way there that the balloons would be gone. Instead, as I turned into her subdivision, I saw this hovering over the treetops:
As excited as I was to see even that rather sedate (funereal) balloon, it was only the beginning. Behind Kim's house is an empty field that must have looked like a good landing area to the balloonists, so we stood out there awhile and watched as other balloons touched down.
(Note: I've kept these photos small in hopes that they'll load a little faster for you, but I promise you'll enjoy them much more if you'll click on them to view bigger versions.)
This shot shows some of the chase vehicles that
follow on the ground to pick up the balloons and
their pilots after they land.
I especially enjoyed watching this beautiful specimen fly directly over our heads:
When we headed around the house to the front yard, we were delighted to see that we weren't the only ones excited by the appearance of the hot air balloons. Neighbors poured out of their houses like ants on their way to a picnic. It isn't every day that colors like these drop from the sky and land smack in the middle of suburbia.
Neighbors watch as the pilot and the chase team deflate the balloon.
Now, I named this post "Ascension," which might seem misleading in light of the fact that all these balloons were photographed as they descended, but I chose that title for a couple of reasons. For one thing, we citizens of Ascension Parish, Louisiana, are proud that the annual Louisiana Hot Air Balloon Championship Festival has moved here for the first time. I hope the participants will find everything to their liking and come back year after year.
Secondly, my mood lately has been marked by a subtle wistfulness, blues of an unknown origin. Nothing is wrong, yet it's seemed like too much work to do any significant house cleaning or to put my thoughts into a coherent blog post. This morning's events may have been all I needed to climb out of the doldrums. Who can hang on to that grey space when the sky is full of brilliant colors? Yes, the balloons were on their way down, but watching them--and seeing the happy faces of Kim's neighbors--made my spirit soar. Talk about "ascension"!
We hadn't played backyard ball since before the Hurricane. The yard has stayed so wet and muddy from the storm's heavy rains that even a short trip outside with the dogs means I have to hose off their feet before they can come back in the house. Today, for probably the fiftieth time this week, Levi and Gimpy approached me with the tennis ball and a pair of hopeful faces. And today I gave in. Labor Day and backyard ball games just go together, don't you think?
All the dark spots on the ground in this photo are mudholes,
and there's plenty more of it underneath the grassy surface.
How'd you like to wash these paws eight or ten times a day?
Here's Levi, begging me to throw the ball one more time.
And here's Gimpy, awaiting his turn with the dreaded shower spray.
Three of us played ball this morning. Two of us--the hairy ones--had a wonderful time, right up until the bath at the very end. Who says, "There is no joy in Mudville"?
Hurricane Isaac came to Louisiana and stayed. And stayed and stayed. Its rains are still here, as a matter of fact, causing area waterways to continue rising well past the point where they've flooded hundreds of homes and made many roads impassable. But it could have been so much worse.
We are among the lucky ones. Some of my family members have been threatened by the rising waters, forced to pack up everything important to them in case parish-operated pumps failed and evacuation became necessary, but that didn't materialize. Another family member was greatly inconvenienced when plans for a move to a new home, scheduled for today, had to be canceled and all the components of such a move put back on the table to be organized all over. You won't hear anyone complaining, though.
As for me personally, a few shingles flew off my roof. The yard is littered with tree trash, but no big limbs fell. The power stayed on throughout the entire storm, then flickered off quite a few times yesterday, staying off just long enough to reset the clocks on my kitchen appliances and the router on my computer. Throughout the main thrust of the winds, though, we remained cool, well fed, and able to keep abreast of the latest hurricane news.
In my home the worst part of Hurricane Isaac was the anxiety it produced, mostly because of the mental tapes of Hurricane Gustav that kept replaying in my head. As comfortable as I was--and as grateful as I was for that comfort--I kept expecting life as I knew it to come crashing down at any moment. Preparedness is helpful in an event like this. But worry? Not so much.
Isaac was a storm of wind and water, but no thunder or lightning accompanied it in our area, so the dogs were not disturbed. Bored, yes, but not frightened.
Levi, Gimpy and Lucy
They balked at going outside in the horrible weather (which I think demonstrates their keen intelligence), and the humans in the house learned that the canines are capable of "holding it" for far longer than has ever been necessary up until now. When they did go out, they made a quick dash of it, then returned indoors to focus on what matters to them every other day: suppertime and tennis balls.
(As I write this, several utility trucks just passed by on the road in front of my house. They made some sort of announcement on a loudspeaker, but I didn't get the door opened in time to hear their message. Also as I write this, when I did get the door opened, I found a trail of fire ants on my doorstep, no doubt seeking higher ground. That's not good.)
As happy as I am to report to you that my loved ones and I are safe and well, I'm saddened by the devastation so many others have experienced as a result of this hurricane, and I pray that they find all the help they need to get quick relief from the heat, the water, and the destruction that has literally rained down on them. At times like this, being one of the lucky ones can leave a person feeling not only happy, but also undeserving. "There but for the grace of God..."
**********
Today is Saturday, after all, so I feel compelled by habit to post a music video. The subject of this week's Saturday Song Selection is an earlier Louisiana hurricane. The old photos used in the video are captivating.
It was a typical lazy Sunday until shortly after one p.m., when my daughter Kelli called and told me that Tropical Storm Isaac had changed its course and was headed straight for us. Within minutes after that phone call ended, I was stopped at a gas station, filling up my tank.
The next stop was Walmart, where I thought I'd get a head start on hurricane preparation. The store was packed with other people who had the same idea. Luckily, I arrived in time to get some bottled water. I also snagged some non-perishable food, but only because I'm willing to eat tuna for several days in a row rather than starve. Tuna was pretty much all the non-perishable meat they had left, so I bought five pouches of it. I also found a couple of cans of pork and beans, some peaches and pineapple chunks, peanut butter, sugar-free strawberry preserves, and the last loaf of whole-wheat bread.
I needed batteries, too, but they were out of the size I needed most. I eavesdropped as a clerk told another customer that there was a relief truck on its way and they would have more emergency supplies on Monday. That turned out to be true, so Kim picked up lantern batteries yesterday.
Monday morning I ran errands to check a few more things off my list:
* cash (ATMs and debit cards don't work if the power is out);
* ice (to store in the freezer and transfer to an ice chest when the power goes out);
* library books (in case there's no TV or computer for entertainment);
* a new car charger for my cell phone.
That last item turned out to be a tough one. I went to several places to try to find one, but it turns out they don't make them anymore for my model of cell phone. I gave up and went home without it, knowing that meant I could only depend on staying in touch with my family for a couple of days. I had bought a car charger the same day I bought the phone, but I had misplaced it months ago and have turned this house upside down trying to find it. Oddly, ten minutes after I got home from shopping for a replacement, I opened the drawer to my nightstand--a drawer I open at least once a week--and the charger was right there, sitting on top of a book. Thanks, Universe!
A little later in the day I used some ground meat that was in my refrigerator to make a dozen one-serving meat loaves. They're in the freezer now, and if/when the power goes out, they can thaw gradually in the ice chest. While those were in the oven, I put all my eggs on the stove to boil, then filled every nook and cranny in the refrigerator with bottled water and canned soft drinks. The tighter it's packed with cold things, the longer the perishables will stay cold.
Planning further ahead, I vacuumed all the floors. There'll be mud tracked in over the next few rainy days, but after the storm hits I may have to rely on a broom instead of the vacuum cleaner. Next, I changed into my oldest shorts and T-shirt and laundered everything else that needed it so I'd have enough clean clothes to wear for at least a week.
This morning (Tuesday), I dusted everything in the entire house, took a shower and shampooed my hair, and scheduled eight days' worth of photo blog posts. I was shooting for two weeks' worth of new photos, just to be on the safe side, but quit when I lost the internet connection.
When I'm finished here, I'll be as ready as I can get. Kim is here with me, having arrived a short while ago with salisbury steak for our supper and a few more grocery items. She, along with her Lucy and Oliver, will wait out the storm with Levi, Gimpy, and me.
The dogs have been behaving a little strangely for the last day or two. Gimpy spent a lot more time in his crate yesterday than he usually does, and Levi was rather subdued, too. During the night they woke me up twice, Gimpy by calling me--"Wwrraawwrraamaamaaaaaaaa"--and Levi, a couple hours later, by standing on his hind legs at my bedside and licking my face. I'm wondering if they sense the storm in the atmosphere. This morning their strange behavior turned to frolic when they stepped outside into cooler air and stiff breezes that I enjoyed as much as they did.
Isaac is now officially a hurricane. It doesn't seem to be much of one in terms of its strength, but if it sits on top of us as long as is predicted, it'll be capable of doing some damage. Until the last possible minute, we'll still be hoping that we've done all that preparation for nothing.
So...Writing this blog post was the last item on my pre-storm to-do list. Until next time, I wish you all a gentle rain if you need it or fair weather if you don't.
Watch It Grow
The narrow patch of woods across the road from my house looks lush and thick. This summer's heavy rains have produced more greenery there than I've seen in the entire 15 years I've lived here. Beautiful, but as rapidly as these vines and branches are growing, I'm halfway expecting them to reach out and snatch a car off the road any day now.
Have to Go
Of course, those same rains have made the weeds grow faster, including these that are crawling through every little crack in my fence:
Set It Free
This butterfly (or is it a moth?), shown here flattening itself against the inside of my glass storm door, realized its mistake as soon as the door closed behind it. It tried desperately to get back out into the fresh air, but the cruel side of me made it wait until I had taken its picture.
Let Her Be
The neighbor's dog, Jelly Bean, was a guest in our home while her person was on vacation. She decided on her own that Gimpy's bed was the one that was "just right," and Gimpy kindly let her stay there for a long nap.
Can't Be Trusted
This ugly gecko had made its way inside a window screen, and I was concerned that it would somehow get around the edge of the window and into the house.
Oops! I'm Busted
I needn't have worried. As soon as it noticed me watching it, it scurried out the same way it had come in.
Take Care of It
This squat toad, about the size of a large egg, has taken up residence underneath the dogs' outdoor water dish. Since it probably dines on bugs that are traveling across my patio, I decided to let it stay. The dish is a big plastic square with a moulded round center that sits close to the ground, so the only spaces left for the toad are the four corners. This means that every time I pick up the bowl to fill it or to toss the water out of it at night (mosquito prevention), I have to be extremely careful not to set down any part of the bowl on top of the toad. I hope the toad appreciates my caution.
Gotta Love It
This is Kim's dog, Oliver, who has an open invitation to my house. The only problem? His favorite seat in the house is also my favorite seat. Fortunately, he's small; it isn't too difficult to scoot him over, even if he does grumble about it.
We all know that book covers sometimes change from one edition to the other. I'm showing you the cover on the book I read, but the embedded link takes you to a site that shows a different cover. Don't let that deter you. I thought it was a really good book. Something different.
The Mermaid Chair by Sue Monk Kidd
Reader reviews on this one averaged only two and a half stars, which I personally think sells it a little bit short. The main complaint seems to be that it doesn't meet the expectations raised by The Secret Life of Bees, also by this author. I agree with that observation, but I think this one might have received better reviews if it had been written first. I personally enjoyed it.
For a description or reviews of any of these books,
I would not bother to deny
How much I love to kill a fly,
To swat it soundly on its head
And watch its body lie there dead.
I only wish, when I kill flies,
That x's would replace their eyes.
Today I want to tell you a story about a woman I once knew and a girl I never met. The woman and the girl were the same person. The story is pieced together from memories and from a string of documents gathered over the years on a genealogy website. This week a page from the 1940 census inspired me to dig deeper, to find out more, and made me long to travel back in time and wrap my adult arms around that girl and tell her--even if it would turn out to be a lie--that everything would be all right.
The girl was born in 1923 in the same East Texas town where she would die, too young, in 1972. Her father was artistic and made his living as a sign painter. I found his World War I draft registration online, and I imagine (don't know for sure) that he met and married the girl's mother, who was born in Wales, when the war took him to Europe.
I've learned from an old city directory that in 1929 the girl's family, including her paternal grandmother, lived together in the Texas town where she was born. The girl had an older brother. Their younger brother had passed away in 1924 at the tender age of six months. In 1929, probably about the time that city directory was distributed, a fourth child, their baby sister, was delivered stillborn.
Months later, at the time of the 1930 census, the family--minus the children's father--lived in a different house. I've never been able to determine where the father was or why he was absent. The girl's mother had bravely returned to work after the loss of her two babies, working as a saleslady at a variety store, but by the time Thanksgiving of 1930 rolled around, she herself had died. She was only 31 years old.
A 1931 city directory shows that the girl's father and his mother were living together again. I assume the children lived with them. Then, in April of 1932, the grandmother died. How much loss can one child bear? The girl would have been almost eight at the time, her brother only eleven. Ever since I discovered those documents I've wondered what happened to the children. Oh, I know they survived, because the girl grew up and married my uncle, and I know from published records that her brother survived to the age of 73. But what about those interim years? Was their father able to care for them? I've learned that he lived long after his children were old enough to be on their own, so maybe he did. At the time of his death in 1949, he was unmarried, residing in Louisiana, and still painting signs.
By the time I met the grown-up little girl in the late 1940s, she was already my uncle's wife. Both of them had joined the military in World War II, and they met and married in England. In the early 1950s they and their three young sons lived just three doors up the street from us in Missouri.
I probably saw my aunt at least once a day in those years, but it never occurred to me that her life had been anything other than ordinary. The only tragic thing I ever knew about her childhood was that she had been attacked by a dog when she was very young. It was a German Shepherd, she told me when I asked out of childish curiosity about the scar that began above one eye, crossed at an angle over the bridge of her nose, and continued across the opposite cheek. I never thought to ask another question, and if she ever told any other stories of her early life, I don't remember them.
We still lived in Missouri when my aunt and uncle and their boys decided to move away to the East Texas town where she'd grown up. A few years later we took a road trip to visit them there. It was on that vacation that my mother met the man who'd soon become my stepfather and changed the geographical course of my own life.
Time passed, and on a late-spring day in the mid-1960s, when I was a young mother with two babies of my own, one of my aunt's sons called me on the phone. "I just wanted to tell you we have a new brother," he said. He went on to explain that a young man and his wife had surprised my aunt with a visit a few days earlier--on Mother's Day. That young man, in his 20s then, turned out to be my aunt's first child. My cousin stated matter-of-factly that his mother had gotten pregnant when she was young, that her baby had been adopted at birth, that my uncle had known the whole story since before they married, and that their whole family was thrilled to welcome the young man into their midst. My cousin also said--I remember this clearly: "She says they forced her to give up her baby for adoption." That part of this story did not have a happy ending. My aunt's firstborn son, lost to her for so many years, died of leukemia about a year after their reunion.
My first marriage ended not long after I was told about my aunt's long-lost son. Later, during my second marriage, my husband's work kept our family moving around the country. During those traveling years I rarely saw the Texas portion of my family, and I never saw my aunt again. She died at the age of 48 from a brain hemorrhage, I believe it was. The exact nature of her illness didn't stick in my mind as soundly as the fact that it had gone largely untreated. A few years earlier my aunt and uncle had become involved in a religious movement that forbade medical treatment. My uncle would follow her down a similar path six years later.
And so we leave the story of the grown-up aunt, knowing what ultimately happened to her, and we return to the story about the girl. I found that girl this past week in the 1940 census. That year she was 16 years old and living in a convent in Houston, Texas, with eight nuns and 103 other girls and women listed in the census as "charges." Through further research I've learned that the nuns who ran the convent were from an order known for its work with "wayward girls and fallen women." Given the circumstances of my aunt's early life, I find it difficult to think of her as wayward. Or fallen. Broken maybe. Lonely, for sure.
I will probably never know, nor is it any of my business, the circumstances surrounding the conception of the child born to the girl. That act may have been tragic, too, but until I learn otherwise I will refuse to think of it that way. I want to believe that the girl met a boy, her first love, someone who would finally hold her close and make her believe that good times lay ahead of them. Maybe that's wishful thinking. If not my aunt, though, then certainly there were others among the "charges" in that convent whose stories began with love and ended in loss and shame because of the mores of the time. So many young women. So many different stories.
Life can be cruel sometimes.
*******
And what of the boy, the father of that baby? When a certain old song shuffled up on my iTunes playlist this morning, I thought for the first time about his role in this story. Except for the fact that my aunt's name was not Joanne, the song made me imagine that boy as he might have been in later years, grown well into manhood and maturity, remembering the young girl and wishing he knew what had happened to her.
______________________________________________
The song is "Joanne" by Michael Nesmith.
Thanks to Margaret Chaplynski for posting this video on YouTube.
Click here to read the lyrics.
Have you ever experienced an intense longing to visit some particular place? Maybe somewhere you've lived before, somewhere you've visited, or even somewhere you've never been except in your imagination?
I've had occasional longings to return to the Missouri hometown of my childhood and have made that trip a couple of times. Last spring the Smoky Mountains were tugging at my heartstrings, so much so that I went on a binge of reading books set in those mountains. Call it coincidence or call it fate, but right in the middle of that book binge, my sister Judy called and invited me to go on vacation with her--to the Smokies. It's been almost a year since we fulfilled that wonderful dream.
Also, for as long as I can remember, I've imagined myself being in Ireland. Knowing I'll probably never get there, I attempt to satisfy that urge by listening to Irish music and watching step-dancing videos when I get the chance. It hasn't escaped my attention that the roots of bluegrass, the music of the Smoky Mountains, extend partly to Ireland. Who knows? Maybe those longings are in my blood, a connection to an Irish ancestor who settled in the Smokies. Or maybe (woo woo) it's even some kind of a past-life thing.
Donna, my stepsister, fell in love with Charleston, South Carolina when she visited there, and she speaks often of wanting to go back. Her love affair with Charleston is one of the reasons she wanted me to read the books mentioned in my last post. Having now read some of them, I understand the attraction that the low country holds for her.
I'm pretty sure most of us experience those geographical longings at some point in our lifetimes. In fact, songwriters and musicians have been inspired to write about places they've been or wanted to be so many times that a Google search for "songs about places" turned up "about 370,000,000 results." So what do you think it is about a certain place that reaches out and grabs you and won't let go?
The reason this whole subject is on my mind is that lately I've been replaying one particular song over and over because I love the feelings it inspires. The places mentioned in the song don't hold any special meaning for me, but the sentiment of it touches me deeply. Listen and see what you think; it's this week's Saturday Song Selection:
My stepsister, Donna, brought me a bagful of books on her recent visit, and I've been working my way through them, starting with several that were written by Dorothea Benton Frank. I haven't checked yet to see if all of Ms. Franks' books are set in or near Charleston, South Carolina, but the ones I've been reading have all taken place in that area. One thing I am particularly enjoying about these books is that, although the stories are all different, characters from one book sometimes make a brief appearance in a later one. That lends credence to the stories, since it might be expected that people living in the same area would bump into one another occasionally.
I dug into the bag of books at the first opportunity, reading a few pages at bedtime while Donna and her hubby were still here. Here's what I've read so far:
Plantation
Return to Sullivans Island
Isle of Palms
Shem Creek
For a description and reviews of any of these books,
click on its image above.
If you like books that leave you with warm, fuzzy, family feelings, you'll like these.
By the way, Donna brought the books in a big, brown paper bag, but she also brought me a large, reversible book bag that she'd sewn herself:
