RETREAT FROM WINTER QUARTERS

After a two month winter retreat to a warmer climate, I’m home again… jiggedy jig! The return trip was exhausting and as I was returning from east Georgia to north of Atlanta part of the reason was at one point I was surprised to find myself in South Carolina. If you know your geography you know there is no valid reason one should be in our northern neighboring state when making such a journey.

After unloading my “luggage” (primarily one piece of actual luggage and mannnnny large plastic containers) I rested and then got to the chores that accumulate when you vacate your primary residence for months: picking up month’s worth of snail mail from the US Postal Service; going online to pay accumulated bills and checking my emails. My snail mail was delivered to me in a huge plastic container which nicely matched my above mentioned ‘luggage’ of such containers but for the United States Postal Service lettering and logo on the side. I’ve been home three days and am yet to reach the bottom of it.

Checked my emails which I had attempted to mange while on vacation by buying a gadget called “a tablet” (of course it wasn’t a REAL tablet but an electronic one) and a mobile WI-FI. In this user's hands it was not a good pairing so I wasn’t able to. One of my email boxes had well over 500 unread… let alone answered, emails.

I’m managing to whittle down these chores and came home with fabulous material for new blogs. Will be posting anew and often once I’m able to catch up.

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SAD BAD OLD DAYS

The good old days photos and newspaper clippings brought back from my recent Savannah visit are still spread pell-mell on my dining table awaiting my sorting. Thanksgiving Day I and visiting family were entertained going through them so they have served some purpose. Since I’ve taken a closer look and found some items might be more interesting as examples of the so-called GOOD old days in light of the continuing world disasters we’ve since come to accept on an almost daily basis… or perhaps it is just my passion for history.

Going through copies of old G Southern U newspapers from when I attended, there were whole editions I’d put away to later clip and save. One such was a 1955 front page headline “’Dear Brutus’ cast set For Spring Production” (Don’t ask me what the choice of Capitol letters indicates since I haven’t a clue.) I was in that play so I clipped and read it. An early paragraph caught my attention and brought a flood of memories that spanned several decades: “Darwin Humphrey, freshman, Vidalia, has been chosen to portray Mr. Dearth,’ a good man who has gone wrong, and in his heart despises himself for it’.” The last paragraph deals with yours truly thusly: “In the role of Mrs. Purdie will be Nan Waters, senior Savannah. Mrs. Purdie is: ‘a simple young wife, wistful, who knows her husband is fond of Joanna’.” The only thing I remember about that play was being criticized in my portrayal for what I thought was showing simple and wistful facial expressions as I stood behind a tree spying on them.

Fast forward to the 80s when I was listening to my car radio and a rather well known Georgia humorist, Lou Grizzard, was doing a bit. I was shocked to hear him remark that another award winning journalist Georgian, Darwin Humphrey had several years before (1978) been murdered in the Jonestown, Guyana masacre. That was the first I’d heard of whatever became of my long ago stage buddy. How could I have missed that fact as closely and vividly as TV coverage was of that horror show when over 900 members of Jim Jones ‘s Peoples Temple commune were also killed?!

Simple! His professional name, used for years while covering the Viet Nam War including the fall of Saigon and as NBC newsman who won four Emmys and DuPont/Columbia Award, was not Darwin Humphrey but Don Harris.

Sadly, some good old days were not so good after all.

"I GOT CULTURE" part 2

She then showed up, apparently thinking that waiting "someplace in the general area of" was the same as waiting "at Frogmore". The remainder of my vacation was a complete hassle after she insisted on taking charge. They treated me to "breakfast" at a nearby strip mall... a far cry from a leisurely and scenic brunch on Beaufort Bay. As I gulped down my so-so she crab soup, Madame Art Association informed me she'd arranged for cocktails on an acquaintance’s boat for our afternoon... Oh and BTW invited them to my dinner I had arranged for the evening (and foolishly invited Mme AA and hubby to, sight unseen, as a thank you for her kindness to my college mate). I only glared at her news of the latter and informed her I wouldn't be able to attend her impromptu nautical cocktail party.

Went on to Fripp to check in and enjoy. Took a while for the salty marsh fluff air, gently lapping Low Country water below my balcony, etc. to relax me after exposure to such strange manners. Put it out of mind and telephoned old friends from high school and arranged to ride in with one for my dinner party. Briefly apologized to said high school friend as we rode to dinner saying I'd never been exposed to some we were to dine with as they were the type who thought it was acceptable behavior to invite other strangers to attend a dinner party as long as you'd been invited so could make no promises about the company we'd be keeping. "Just roll with any punches, please."

After dinner Mme AA's behavior remained consistent. She and hubby with College mate in tow followed us to my friend's home afterward and came in. Mme AA arranged a full day for the next but was politely told by my high school friend she had other plans already. Mme AA undauntedly rushed on to say since she'd be riding home with me and my College mate, we could meet here first thing on our departure date for a coffee since we all knew where it was and I didn't know where their vacation trailer was!

Gladly took off for Fripp and bed after such as miserable experience, hoping I'd seen the last of the woman. Not to be so but I was civil, .. barely. She managed to insert herself into the driver's seat of my car in the later and final episode so it was with great pleasure that I called her at 5 AM (YES, I'M AWARE THE CORRECT TIME FOR CALLING CIVILIZED PEOPLE IS 9 AM TO 9 PM)  on the last day of  MY VACATION and when it went to machine announced I'd be going to the nearest car dealership to repair an under drag problem before returning home so she and College mate could ride home with hubby and the dogs in their pick up.

That woman badly needs an I GOT CULTURE lapel pin and if Gov. Deal thinks we can't afford to have an Arts Comm. at least require these regional volunteers to take a basic etiquette course particularly if they're from out of state.

I GOT CULTURE

                                                                 

I love that 1960s' slogan when the Savannah Symphony Orchestra handed out it printed black  on a large white lapel button to attendees. It brought a smile and inferred inclusion of everyone, not merely the usual elite, to their performances. Any reared and educated in Savannah were taught perhaps a uniquely Savannah saying: “Got is Rot and Gotten is Rotten” in proper English usage… so perhaps it was more amusing to us. As I’ve taught and traveled in many other places, I’ve learned got is apparently more acceptable now.

A decade later my son went to his school’s costume party as a hobo with a tattered white shirt, askew string bow tie, ragged tails (all reasonably priced and slightly altered via Goodwill store), five o’clock shadow cum eyebrow pencil, obviously recycled butt of a cigar, white gloves with holes in some fingers and that ‘I Got Culture’ lapel button. Don’t remember if he won the prize but his outfit was a big hit.

The Great Recession recently caused our state government to budget cut and relieved us of the 'non-essentials' like the Georgia Arts Commission. . even though it had served the state well through political contentions such as completion of the relief sculpting on Stone Mountain without ever losing sight of our heritage of remaining gracious in the face of aggressive and hostile rudeness. This now former Georgia Arts Commission served as a sort of aid and clearing house for the entire state for all of the Arts (visual, musical, literary, performing, etc.).

By 2016 I’d forgotten the ‘I GOT CULTURE’ button but on a mini-vacation trip to the coast was reminded of that lapel pin in reality. And it wasn’t even slightly amusing. An artist friend of mine and I set out to our mutual College reunion's Bar-B-Q etc. just west of the coast with the thought of making a side trip to the beach. All went well until the next morning when, awakened by said College mate at 8 AM. I looked at her as if she were insane since obviously she was. We'd known each other for 63 years and never in that time had I been a morning person. Her mantra was "Early to bed and early to rise" so I knew never to call after sundown. She knew never to call me before eleven in the AM. Why on earth would she wake me on the first day of a vacation? Apparently because someone on her cell phone needed to talk to me!! Really?? REALLY!

I don't remember the exact words she spoke but it was something about picking up my fellow college mate as she was to stay with them while I went on to Fripp Island. Nor do I remember my exact words but they were something like, I'll be having breakfast across the street from my motel on the picturesque bay so why not pick her up there. I was not rude as Southerners are not naturally so. Amazingly she, who had a vacation place in Beaufort didn't know where Beaufort Bay was! Would I bring her to Frogmore instead? (Not Frogmore as in Queen Victoria's favorite place belonging to the Royal family of the UK but a two story white wooden structure in the midst of St. Helena's Island in SC. about 5-10 miles distant from my motel). "Sure".

I drove to the gas station facing the house known as Frogmore and waited, having no coffee and not eaten but my friend had taken advantage of my motel's free breakfasts hours earlier. I gassed up the car but still no sign of the woman.  Earlier I'd expressed my feelings to my passenger about this pushy person who defended her by explaining, "She is, but she has to be to run our Art Association" (albeit as an unpaid volunteer). My jaw went slack and I said, "Oh, really", but kept the rest of my thoughts to myself... now mentally adding and obviously dumb and/or unpunctual woman to my impressions of her. Asked my passenger to call the woman on her cell and ask where she was as I waited coffee-free in Frogmore.  (To be contd.)

WHAT WAS THAT SUPPOSED TO BE?

Fresh from what supposedly was my annual Physical Exam, now question if it were elder abuse, a USMC endurance test, the medical profession revolt against Medicare and/ or the recent election or simply sadists enjoying testing me for masochism. WHICHEVER, I managed to get through it while retaining my sense of humor, manners, sanity and life. It went like this and I do not exaggerate:
Instructed to have nothing but water from Midnight until after my exam brought Problem  #1. My blood pressure, allergy and thyroid medications are all pills taken by mouth.( I awoke at an hour I normally reserve for an adequate reaction time for, if not an alien invasion of earth at least a foreign invasion of the USA... felt this at least qualified for the latter since I was about to undertake the two most dangerous things an elder can undertake: #2 a bath and #1 drive the Atlanta Expressway System which is the most dangerous in the nation for any of any age… Did I mention, and me without a drinkable cup of coffee?)
Stared at my pill bottles pondering if I dared swallow my medicine. Called the doctor’s office (listened as recording gave the disclaimer telling me if an emergency hang up and call 911, followed by a lecture on arthritis which claimed there were over 100 different types… relieved they didn’t detail each but feared they might, followed by another on the qualifications/ training of Internal Medicine specialists before a human thankfully interrupted and told me to take my meds.
Survived bath, dressed, and with prepacked overnight ‘bag’ drove up to the exit gate which opens automatically to avoid the Home Owners Association being sued for unlawful imprisonment but Problem #2: it didn’t. Considered the cost of said lawsuit vs ramming it when I discovered it also opens when I push the entrance button on my remote so now joined the stalled cars on Ga. Hwy 400 (northern expressway that feeds the Atlanta Interstates)
Navigated both exits to I-285 East and West bur alas Problem # 3: Traffic blocked Exit 3 to my Doctors office and couldn’t safely exit there. Oh well, I'd use the next exit and double back to it. The next exit proved to be ‘Beautiful’ down town Buckhead/ Lenox Square/ Phipps. Speak of urban traffic snarls this is the King Kong of them. Managed to maneuver without a wreck and get back on 400 to my Dr. Office’s exit. Despite the ticking of the clock and hassle of it all, I was pleased to have DONE it.
Next on to parking: there are more hospitals and professional offices with attached parking garages in this area than concrete in NYC (oops exaggerated). Got trapped in the wrong one but managed to escape to the right one but no space available so toured it several times until one opened. Clock still ticking. Got on the first elevator available (though going the opposite direction but exited the parking lot on 8th floor level (the Top) and remembered the secret (no signs) of turning to exit through the rear. Remembered to go around the corner to the left and enter the professional office building’s elevators to doctor’s top floor office,.. all kept secret since there is no signage. Arrived a few minutes before my scheduled 11 AM appointment, Whew!
Beginning hunger pangs so read travel rather than food magazines. Finished two issues of Conde Nast when sign politely reminded me to shut off my cell phone which took away my only time piece. Whipped out my handy dandy electronic bridge game for a few hands to ignore my now growling stomach so got up and checked the time. 11:30 gone and headed for noon this was the longest I’d ever had to wait, here or perhaps ever. Finally an assistant type called me in. This usually started blood and urine sampling which would allow me to eat the snack I’d brought in case this sort of delay happened. Didn't happen. They wished to delay that until the MD saw me. Took all vital signs and usual measurements. Dr. saw and examined me, saw me again, EKGed me and at last took a urine sample after they bled me for about a half liter (oops again) of blood
Long story shortened,..  Returned via the already described nightmare of traffic as efficiently as possible but now am a distracted driver still fasting but cramming snacks down my mouth. Between 1:30 and 2 PM arrived home  and stepped from my car stumbling from dizziness to my neighbor's dismay. I recovered my balance immediately assuring I was fine. Surely this Health CARE system can't last. More like survival of the fittest.

EUREKA

Remember when I was surfing the net in search of the good old days? Well, as fate would have it, I sadly found them and I should be finished sorting them just in time for the next US Presidential election. Seems the good old days were recorded by photographers in the form of old pictures and newspaper (remember those) clippings.

My nieces inherited my now deceased sister's home and, after leasing it out for a movie filming, they sold it. These photographed good old days we're pretending I left in the house when I lived there, despite the fact that I shipped them to my oldest son in NOLA. My older niece had them already boxed up for me when I got there on my recent jaunt to the coast.

I'm back now but have only unloaded the top items from said box: a picture of my late Mother, a photo album and wedding album. Mother's portrait presented no problem but the photo album was another matter. I visually scanned all remembering well each event. Some highlights included photos of when my oldest son went with my brother and many others to the Caribbean on bro's sister ship to the Honeyfitz; newspaper and campaign literature on some ex-in-laws who were in politics on the west coast (including one of Robert Kennedy where they supported his Presidential campaign on top of ? Mt. Hood); son's first sailboat, an AMC minifish called Chicken of the Sea ( that name served as constant reminder to him that it wasn't ever to go to sea... only lakes, estuaries and such) etc., etc., etc. ad infinitum. That was 6 days ago and the mess still sits in the midst of the dining table awaiting its fate. Needless to say I haven't cracked the wedding album yet. Once pristine white it's now more of an unmellow yellow from age... as am I.

The moral of this blog is be #$%^$%^careful what you search for because you may just find it.

THANK YOU, ANDY BOROWITZ

Talk about LOL! I really did… and it added 11 years to my life! Exactly what I, whose family left the UK in ~1600, needed. Having been stressed beyond words about choices of this election, I took the coward’s way out. About to hit the road again on a lengthy trip from the Appalachian foothills to the Atlantic coast, I cast an early ballot and decided there was no way I was going to chance being involved in an auto accident and not have a say in our impossible choices for President. Read Mr. Borowitz’s New Yorker article and immediately and deeply regretted my haste.

In case you missed his satire, Queen Elizabeth II addressed the US recently from her palatial office and made us, US citizens, an offer many I’m sure would welcome. She offered to restore British rule over us. Wait now and think about it. Her offer said we wouldn’t have to put up with Parliament and even appeared to throw Charles and Camilla under the bus, so to speak! She selflessly declared our social experiment with a Democratic Republic was obviously a disaster as evidenced by our 2016 Presidential contest. It would be an old fashioned Monarchy where her rule would be totally Autocratic. Her heirs to her throne would be William and his adorable children. All we have to do is write in her name on our ballot. NOW you tell me, YOUR MAJESTY… after I’ve already voted!?

YOUNG MUTANTS

Long past midnight I was self-tasked with keeping an airplane aloft from NOLA to Japan with not one, not two but three typhoons aimed at that plane’s destination. The plane left NOLA at 5 AM (EST), about the time the first typhoon was predicted to hit Tokyo. Two other typhoons were still waiting to land. On that plane is a young lady of admirable strength: a Katrina survivor, NOLA native, high school valedictorian, etc. She arrived safely in Tokyo 1:30 AM (EST), a journey by jet of twenty hours 30 minutes. She had not slept for 27 hours. She was there to fulfill an earlier commitment as a partial repayment to all the people who came to NOLA’s aid after Katrina. She was there to help Japanese survivors of a tsunami. She has not reached the ultimate destination of those tsunami survivors yet but is well and on her way as the Tokyo pictures she sent back testify.

She is not a politician, rock star, star of an upcoming movie, book author or any other celeb looking for a photo op. She is a lowly college sophomore doing what generations of decent people have done and do: paying forward people to people aid. I mention her story because today’s media give little exposure to such good news.

Shortly after noting the nomadic and pay it forward nature of the above relative my youngest (22 YO) grandson made a 3000 mile vacation trip so the travel lust may have a genetic component. He spent a week in Seattle, Washington… not Japan but closer to it than his lifetime home in Atlanta. He loved it. The only negative was he found his wardrobe inadequate for the climate there. That gave me pause regarding his judgment but a minor glitch as travel problems go. He returned yesterday and I was not prepared that during that vacation he called his Atlanta boss and gave his two week notice after finding and accepting a job he liked in Seattle. Found an apartment there and signed a lease. Upon his return he sold all his non essential possessions and packed his car with his essential possessions and will drive back to Seattle.

Me thinks the genes they are mutating since my family got off their boats from Europe 1585-1607 in the South and have sat in the area never budging to go very far for very long.

ART APPRECIATION: The Hart to The High

Sadly the only time I’ve seen Dilworth’s art exhibited was at Atlanta’s High Museum in the late 60s. Yep, I’m talking last century. One piece, an approximately 40 inches in diameter granite peach, was partly sliced open exposing part of the peach’s pit. Not surprisingly it was titled a Georgian Peach. Keep in mind this was a decade before someone followed with Steel Magnolia. The peach was highly polished granite which is, of course, how Georgia women like at least to think of ourselves. I was surprised and quite proud as I read the name of the artist. We had gone to undergrad together in the 50s. Actually I went to the High that day to see a painting by another well known Georgia artist, Ann Osteen, from my hometown.

Hartwell is fortunate, particularly for any sophisticated art connoisseurs in the area. One of our country’s most gifted artists, Mary Lula Dilworth resides there. Hartwell will have an exhibition of her works and only hers, a one woman show. She’s done her civic and regional duty often acting as judge and allowing pieces shown in Hartwell, Anderson and other fortunate spots in the area. However, October 1 some new pieces never before displayed will be seen.

One of my favorites was featured in Vivian Morgan’s excellent June 16^th Hartwell Sun article on Mary Lula and her works. The canvas is of several women and the topmost face, about 2^nd from left must be her self portrait. It looks as she did in her youth. Excellent likeness. The 3^rd from left also intrigues me. It seems to be someone I don’t know at all but at the same time I know dozens of women who look just like her and they all have an identical personality. They present themselves attractively almost identical to some prototype. That face’s right ear is clearly non-functional, indicating a common feature of that personality type. The 1^st face with its collared neck doesn’t intrigue me at all, possibly because of her obvious bondage status. Yet the hand/arm with the possibility that the collar is also around a wrist does... there’s a lot of geometry in that face. That piece is an example of why Dilworth is one of America’s foremost artists; the more you look, the more you find. The apparent nose, to the left of the first eye begs the question is it phallus instead. Before I could resolve that I was struck by the recurring possibility that the eye’s position and shape was not unlike testicular. In fact, all the noses and eyes on those faces are. Keep in mind that Art Appreciation can reveal more about the observer than the artist. To see the picture go to www.mdilworth.com.

Another of my favorites she admits took 47 years to complete and I have personally known that wooden sculpture since it was merely one of many trees bull-dozed to construct I-285. About 1970 I received an excited phone call from her telling me she had just saved some trees. Being a lifelong tree-huger; literally so, usually in order to not fall as I loved to climb them. Then as a Biology major in undergrad, I studied under Botanist Dr. Donald Caplenor and much later once had myself a three storied home built completely around an ancient sycamore. So I was impressed by Mary’s rescue. Never knew she gave a fig about trees. Of course, as a tree-huger I was less impressed to discover she ‘saved’ them after they’d been bull-dozed. She was ecstatic at the prospect of using them for wood sculptures.

I have looked at that former tree several times through the years and the progress of her sculpturing of it. Last time I saw ‘the tree’ it was a voluptuous nude, though obviously quite gravid female. It too was pictured in the Hartwell Sun’s story... Wood sculpturing has a strength requirement that few women, even as young adults, would undertake and Dilworth is 82. Impressive again, but no surprise. She takes roads her art requires her to take. She was the only woman ever known to enroll and gloriously complete Industrial Arts at our Alma Mater .

SURFING the NET in SEARCH of the GOOD OLD DAYS

                                SURFING the NET in SEARCH of the GOOD OLD DAYS

As my 2016 birthday approaches I find myself nostalgic for the good old days. Without divulging my specific age, which no woman should or so the cliché claims: When I celebrated my 80^th my daughter-in-law asked what my thoughts were. I paused and tried to look beyond the most obvious one, “when can we cut the cake?” and came up with, “Since according to the doctor who delivered me I was born dead. The year was during the Great Depression of the 1930s. So all things considered, celebrating this birthday is almost miraculous for me.”

As if surviving after being pronounced dead, being one of seven children when employment, money and food were practically non-existent, even Baby boomers may know what followed. Yep, World War II! With three brothers, we contributed one to the Navy, one to the Army Air Force and the youngest to the Marines. That made WWII and The Occupation very personal. After that there was Korea, Viet Nam, ad infinitum. Hopefully by now you’re asking yourself why, with that history, would I be searching for the old days and how do I have the nerve to call them good. Have you looked at the news of the world today on the internet?

Throwing most of the election 2016 news out, here is what’s going on in a capsule: Indianapolis Star reports USA Gymnastics hid sexual abuse accusations to protect reputation of coaches; De Pillis on Yahoo says “Baby boomers Are Taking on Ageism…” (Oh, I remember Boomers they’re the ones who coined the phrase “Don’t trust anyone over 40”just in time for my 41^st birthday. Good luck with that, guys and gals!); Women with Tonsils and Appendixes removed are still fertile; Clint Eastwood, the only person in the world who looks older than I but isn’t, says, “It’s a sad time in history” and Pokemon Go is the newest game craze. I admit I chose the last item from the technology articles because it is the only one I can remotely relate to, remembering my now 22 Year Old grandson’s Pokemon card collection.

Perhaps the Good Old Days I seek is better explained by a friend's wall plaque: The best thing about the Good Old Days is simply that I was neither old nor good.

HERE'S LOOKING AT YOU, MICHELANGELO

                                                     

You’re not going to believe this but let me tell you of my apparently pornographic half bath. I bought a condo in a northern suburb of Suburbville, GA (others call it Atlanta). It was in lousy condition still I call it home after some insane DIY projects. These gave me bonding time as well as a way to give spending money without danger of spoiling him, with an otherwise distant grandson. It went like this:

“Son, would you like to earn some money by painting my half bath for me? I have the paint and all.”

Eye rolling, fake grimacing, heavy sighing Grandson: “what size?”

“Quart and a five inch brush.”

Pitying look at me, head shaking and eye rolling Grandson: “I mean room size?”

“Like a big closet… really.”

GS with a sneering look of authority and might’ve known:”You didn’t even measure it before buying the paint, did you?” toward my head shake.

Such was our ‘bonding’. I leave it to your imagination as to the look he gave when he opened the paint and found it to be super-duper high gloss and pitch black but his disbelieving words were. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing using this freakish paint?”

Once done, off went my GS with words of urgency of school work. As I was left to clean the brushes, remove floor tarp and generally act as clean-up guy I pondered suspiciously his sudden devotion to homework.

Eventually I added my decorative touches. My hobby is painting but obviously not the room kind. I had my pencil sketches of statues of artists in front of the Telfair Gallery in Savannah and put them in gilded frames but really needed another to fill the bathroom shelf. Meanwhile, WalMart had great plush, black, edged in gold guest towels. Except for another picture of an artist, I liked the room even better than I’d imagined.

Then I rushed to locate a picture of one more artist. Bingo! Found the perfect one on, of all places, the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel… well, no, didn’t really go to the Vatican in Rome but that’s why we have the web. Right? Michelangelo, the guy that ‘painted’ that ceiling, used his own self portrait as St. Bartholomew. My pencil sketches were white on black paper and Mickey-O’s was black on white paper. Also my sketches wore their clothes and Michelangelo was naked as a jaybird but I dared not be dumb enough to mess with any M painting. Besides I really like the contrast of the one white among four blacks. I was thrilled but not without fear that my GS would really roll his eyes and worse when he saw it.

Tried phones, Texts, Emails to get GS to view my finished room but without success. Soon his Dad decided he had no room for a family heirloom resulting in my looking out my window to see GS. ROLLING said heirloom, a  round table, on the concrete to my condo. Felt the need of Aunt Pity Pat’s smelling salts but being more the Prissy type tried to appear calm. Like all teenagers he had more like himself in tow. He briefly introduced me to friends who’d helped him with the chore while I resolved this was not the time to unveil my finished bathroom. I offered them glasses of tea after they placed the table as directed. They were leaving when one emerged from the bath with a red face, painfully resisting the urge to burst out laughing. He whispered urgently in his friends’ ears and suddenly GS ducked into the bath. He emerged with eyes rolling like they’d entered the Daytona 500 and I braced myself.

“Baxter, you’re a dork. Next year when you’re a senior like me you’ll take Ms. Carr’s Art Appreciation class and learn nudes are NOT porno, you dweeb! Nudes ’ve been around since fifth century B.C. To the Greeks and Romans the nude body represented Humanity and depending on how shown represents heroism, vulnerability, purity, idealism and that kinda stuff.Those remotely sexy are meant to arouse only the mind. That’s not porno! That’s a great Renaissance artist plastered among a lot of other nudes including God on the inside of the best known church in the world, you Neanderthal.”

GS was still making his point as they left. I was now the one rolling my eyes… mostly heavenward in relief and thanks for education.

IRENE

It’s that time of year again as Irene just reminded us. Have been a hurricane evacuee three times on land with two of those real horror stories but my worst experience with a hurricane came at sea. My parents gave me a cruise to Bermuda for college graduation. The ship left Savannah and everything started out sunny: swimming pool; food every hour; flying fish off the bow and then my favorite the little red dingy Savannah way outside the harbor marking the entry to our port. I was in my element. I loved my first voyage. When not in the pool if you’ve ever seen the movie Titanic you know what I did: stood on the bowsprit and enjoyed the crashing waves – long before Gwyneth was born. I marveled at the sea and sky.
A day later the clouds moved in; white caps whipped up and swells grew larger by the minute. When the weather didn’t improve they emptied the pool and finally told us what we already suspected: we’d run into a hurricane. Apparently, the Captain was the last to know. It was only a decade since WWII and I doubt our young German crew had ever been near a hurricane before. . I was fine as long as I stayed in the open air. If I went inside I felt queasy so I stayed outside and slept in a deck chair. Soon lifelines were strung on deck to hold onto and lots of green looking people joined me on the deck, some leaning over it with gusto. Joyously we made Bermuda and the island and its weather were perfect.
Before the return trip began many questioned the Captain before boarding and he assured them the storm had moved on north. Nonetheless a passenger from Charleston swore off cruising for life and took a flight home.One day out and we met our old nemesis again, only this time it was worse. The troughs of water between the mountainous crests of waves were deeper. We rolled so that you could only see water until it rolled the other way and you only saw sky. We pitched and dishes and glasses fell from the racks and broke when the props came out of the water. The whole ship shuddered as if it would shatter each time that happened. At meals the elegant dining was gone as we made do with sparse settings. No big deal since few showed up inside for meals where you had wine OR water OR tea OR a cocktail since there was only one glass per guest allowed. Very sobering!
We safely made it home a day late with many worried but welcoming friends and families with outstretched arms awaiting us.

GARAGE STALES

Just received an E-mail from my niece with the subject line: Cleaning out Mom's garage. Nearly needed the late Anne Sanford's (UGA football stadium bears her family's name)Victorian fainting couch but alas it is inside said garage. I thought my niece a brave soul to undertake such. While a columnist in Savannah its staggering contents were one of my favorite subjects which turned the place into a minor Savannah icon. Since I once lived in the house attached to it for about five years she wanted to know if I wished to reserve anything in it. Wow!
I once wrote 500 words in my column about a peach gown originally owned by an aunt but used by everyone in the family, actually the females only... as far as I know, for four decades. It served as the gown for Jeanette in my role in Christopher Frye's The Lady Is Not for Burning; with a hoop my cousin was a southern belle at a UGA fraternity's Old South Ball; and my E-mailing niece wore it in her lead role in Bell, Book and Candle and with a boa the newspaper photographed her in it at the final gala before the razing of the original Hotel DeSoto. That gown hangs among racks of similar vintage clothes including my own wedding gown and veil. My first computer, an Apple given me by my oldest son in the mid-80s; varied paintings I've never finished; a huge life-sized portrait of Ben Hogan which my late PGA brother left in my care because he couldn't chose which of his sons should inherit it (must be a genetic flaw because neither can I); the Sanford couch already mentioned bought from neighbor Anne's estate sale; and endless other such are all in there.
In the end I asked niece to save the Ben Hogan, an unfinished portrait of herself I started and the Apple's Owner's manual (good basic 'How to' for computers). Sent a PS for her to pass on my crabbing net in there to someone in the family as I won't be needing it here.

BULL SHARKS and BIG BLUE HERONS

Some left over scraps from the wedding- I was preoccupied that the groom’s family follow the prescription of my mother-in-law who as a Missouri Protestant minister’s wife put together many a wedding in her day. She said the groom’s mother should wear beige (meaning drab and colorless so as not to steal the bride & Co. thunder) and his family should sit still and be quiet. We were doing fine until a nephew and wife decided to seat themselves just as it was time for the father-of-the-bride to begin their entrance. My son, seated on the row with them leaned over and quietly said hello to his cousin whom he had not seen in decades. Nephew demanded, “Who are you?” When son identified himself they stood, shook hands and had old home week! I apologized to the bride afterwards but she assured me she didn’t even notice. I also was apparently so busy recovering from that so I missed the groom fixated on the Bull shark swimming behind the ceremony as it took place. Apparently there was also a Big Blue heron not frightened from his fishing by the predator. Possibly they’re two pretty good symbols for a young couple starting a new life together (and the rest of humans as well) but let’s not dwell on that.
I finished writing a non-fiction piece of 40,000 words if any non-fiction publishers out there are reading this. It goes like this: one of the most condemned and vilified women of history, presents one of its greatest mysteries. Inspired fiction writers treat her kinder than writers of her earliest alleged non-fiction with the latter’s many self-evident errors. These blunders occurred because factual records like the State Papers of Thurloe and Clarendon, various government Calendars, Letters between rulers and/or administrators, Memoirs, and even Hotten’s Lists were not made public until usually centuries later. Her slanderers, not knowing or caring that reliable contemporaries were recording events which along with advances in science would one day prove their accusations impossible, are “hoisted on their own petard.” Search for her historic truth continues. One need only use a computer’s search engine to find the scandalous details recorded of her. She has been a popular subject and herein is a review of some reportedly non-fiction facts about her. She has inspired more defenders than accusers in the last two centuries and each defender examined the evidence and usually established only one or two new truths regarding her. Now time has established enough accumulated valid evidence at least to sketch her real character.
Heavy work.

Home Again

Returned Sunday from Skidaway Island off the Georgia coast to chilly weather. Barely 60 degrees F but we expect a warm-up by the weekend. No, this is not going to be another one of my weather reports. Pulled some winter clothes out which I efficiently put away before heading southeast for my grandson’s May 14th wedding.
My son, his wife and I took a rental home at the Landings on Skidaway for the occasion and it was nice to be back in my home area. Sat on the patio at night and listened to the swamp sounds coming from our lagoon. A resident Blue Heron successfully fished ten feet away. Anhinga dived for their dinner and then spread their huge wings to dry in the sun. The rehearsal dinner was at Bonna Bella Mariner, a Savannah landmark and as mariner oriented as the name implies. Had a somewhat formal version of a Frogmore Stew/Dump/Low Country Boil (different names given the same dish depending on which part of the Carolina-Georgia coast it’s held), chicken and accompanying fare. Saw people I had not seen in thirty years and another even before that from the west coast. Took my older sisters and another to lunch in the kitchen at Savannah’s “World famous” (are they sure?) Johnny Harris’. Shared memories with family, friends and enemies equally. Toured my late mother’s old home with its wealth of photographs and art and gave tours of it to all as well. The wedding took place there outdoors facing the east and the Vernon Estuary after a full day of steady rain that stopped an hour before the ceremony. My mandatory grandmother heels sank a bit on every step as one of favorite grandson’s friends from his cradle days escorted me to my seat. The reception followed at a Golf Club on the nearby Landings where I darted between the Peacocke’s family table, my birth family’s table and the bride’s family while watching the dancing expertly coordinated by an emcee imported from Atlanta and designed to entertain onlookers. Fun, exhausting but the change was good for me.

Augusta, Georgia Revisited

Spring, pre-Easter, brings unstable weather particularly in upstate Georgia. Severe thunderstorms rolling through as cold and warm fronts meet progressing to tornado watches and warnings. Sorta like early autumn brings hurricanes to our coast. Have lived through many harrowing experiences with hurricanes but I feel more comfortable, maybe familiar is a better word, with those threats than the uncertainty of a first tornado experience. No lengthy warning time with tornadoes. Monday night was severe weather that almost instantly brought ‘The Night the Lights went out in Georgia.’ We had no power until the next day, minor since six people lost their lives in the area. My battery operated emergency high powered light enabled me to check for any debris (from within the safety of my home) when a nearby transformer exploded and intermittently check for any visible Georgia Power crews. Nothing from either. Got bored with that but noticed an interesting fact in the high beam of my flashlight: my house is filthy everywhere. I don’t see it in the daylight or with my predominant fluorescent lighting so I was shocked. That discovery led me to go out after the storms passed and buy an electric, vacuum broom. My floors are all new within the last two years and I thought those easy, convenient swiffers were keeping them clean. Not so! Hmm… what is my problem that with a storm like that I focus on the cleanliness of my house? The best news is my seemingly forest has reappeared as vast and green as a barrier against a busy intersection. Georgia’s pleasant spring event, The Masters golf tournament began… delaying my usual, already-too-late-at-night Craig Ferguson show. Having spent ten plus years in Augusta I’ve never looked back, not even at Master’s time. Since it was watch The Masters or do something productive, I watched. Made me all nostalgic. The picture of the course may look like a staged production but it really is at least as beautiful as the cameras show. My friends the late Helen and Forest Boshears lived adjoining it and during Masters had a week long Open-House for friends. Their drop-in guests, Southern style, didn’t arrive empty handed so there were always wonderful dishes and liquid refreshments. Their comfortably convenient shelter was welcoming if the weather or tournament play got dreary. Good times! At the Boshears’ you met new people from all over the globe since Forest was in Aviation. Must share Forest’s experience when he, hard of hearing like most aviation pioneers, got a loud radio call at Daniel Airfield in Augusta that he manned, often alone. The call was, “Look outside.” When Forest opened the hangar door from his small office, he gasped at the plane that was inches from the hangar door complete with skid marks. The 747’s pilot had mistaken Daniel Field for the Augusta Airport. No damage or injury but the national media had a field day.Last time I attended a happy event in Augusta it was at the signature Green Jacket the closest establishment on Washington Road to Magnolia Lane. It had sadly gone out of business as its former self and was then a Special Events site.

AHHH...

Ahh…
A welcome, early and beautiful Spring. I witnessed my first customer at my new personalized birdhouse, a lovely hand-made Christmas gift from family. Know naught about ornithology but it was a small bird with a large caudally curved beak. Actually feasted on the “whatever” food that came in it.
Am having my kitchen redone which means work-men in and out. It began with my son’s gift of painting my two story high foyer that I couldn’t reach. Then I had the 4 ‘ x 7’ “oriental rug” I spent 19 years painting on duck hung in that space. Guy did a so-so hanging job so my oldest grandson re-hung it. It made the adjoining space look neglected so I painted it a new color of peach (chosen from the many colored “rug”) which everyone offended me by calling pink. So I painted the trim apricot which made it look less pink. Wanted molding which my grandson did a beautiful job on (naturally as he’s perfect). Then I painted the loft room over-viewing the “rug” the darker rose color from it. The paint store salesman warned me when I chose it that it was the hardest color of all to paint regardless of the quality of the manufacturer. He was right though understated. Impossible to paint would have been more accurate. Two and three coats later I hired a painter to do the adjoining alcove as I was exhausted. Now he is.
My grandson and I discussed re-doing the kitchen. His pending May wedding seems to have taken over his life, however, which is understandable. So hired the painter and associate to do the kitchen cabinets and walls in a deep blue (again selected from colors in the “rug”). I don’t care for hardware on my cabinets so they placed curved carvings on the inside lip which won’t show when I open one with flour on my hands. His comment: most people are afraid to use colors the way you do. Pictures to follow.

LIFE IN A "DOC MARTIN" EPISODE

Cut over 10,000 words from the Completed trilogy before preparing for a reading for Audio disc. Lost nothing important but merely tightened the writing. At my age, it was more important to complete it than to tighten the writing.
A delightful week of spring weather allowed me to get my tulip bulbs in a week ago and my ponytail palms, snapdragon and hen and biddies plants from the inside to the patio since. Patio thermometer was eighty today. As the checkout line at the Supermarket agreed, we’ll probably get a March cold spell yet though. Meanwhile I check for the tulips each morning but nothing… probably something to do with a watched pot.
Have been having a “fun” week of Russian roulette with my blood pressure medicine. Ordered it weeks ago and although they promptly claimed to ship it and efficiently charged me for it, no medicine has arrived. My Health/ Prescription insurance has a deal with a Mail-order pharmacy so after hounding them and the USPS went local pharmacy counter to pharmacy counter literally begging from previous providers. After two claimed they couldn’t help went to Wal-Mart’s and they “gave” me one since they couldn’t charge me for it with no prescription (ran out on a Sunday). Monday one of the former two denials gave me the equivalent of six after going online and transferring my original prescription. That begging carried me a week and when still no delivery from the mail-order people, called the doctor’s office and asked them to call me in another Rx to another local pharmacy which they promptly did. Meanwhile again called the mail-order people and they tried giving me the run-around again. Finally got a supervisor and told them to either get me the medicine STAT or refund my money. Said they’d ship again tomorrow. This morning opened the new local Rx picked up yesterday. It wasn’t my usual shaped pill so called the providing pharmacist. Seems the doc’s office sent in a different but similar RX!!!! Do they know it? It’s Sunday again so went ahead and took the medicine which is minus one ingredient and will deal with the doc’s office tomorrow. Meanwhile life is like an episode of Doc Martin.

WHINE! Whine! Wine?

It is snowing. It has been snowing for hours. Each time I think it's time for moderation... a banner on one of the three columns on our state flag... they predict snow. If I liked snow I'd move to northern Europe, north of the Mason-Dixon Line, Colorado, Alaska or some other uninhabitable place on the planet.
Mea Culpa! We're in great shape compared to the mid-wheast (It's an American in-joke), Northeast US and , alas, the Aussie floods. Still, I've done little lately other than write, make sure I have enough food/supplies to be marooned for awhile, celebrate never-ending family birthdays and generally survive cabin fever. Busy Busy Busy!
And the upcoming wedding in the family, my oldest grandson's, is beginning. First party for moi to attend is on the 19th. The groom had his bachelor party in Vegas last weekend with half the US airports closed and dudes due in from the west coast, North Dak etc.
Most of my current writing still at the back-up research stage. Have six books in front of me and on an important quote, two say his majestie's and two say her majestie's (we're talking 17th century, European non-fiction here so it matters!). Finally resolved that conflict with my 1930s french book. They're both sa majestie so a matter of personal choice. Such is the life of a writer.
Still snowing but I'm good. Have humus, tarragon chicken salad, lots of other food and wine.
Hmmm... need to check on other essentials like when in the world can I dispose of my garbage and recycling.