Scout Moves

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Yesterday, in a linking frenzy, I followed a chain of blog links so far back I lost track, so I'm afraid I can't credit the source for today's post. But here's the idea: there is a sort of I Am Template that allows you to define yourself by the things you could touch and feel and taste as a child. I have tucked it away on another site so as not to clutter up the space here. Fill in the blanks, elaborate when you can, and you've got yourself a poem, of sorts. Here is mine: I Am I am from Singer, from Butterick , and from bolts of fabric with spools of coordinating thread, bias tape, and 9-inch zippers. My mother sewed all of my clothes because they were cheaper than store bought. It was also a source of pride because the dresses and jumpers and skirts and pants were well made. She always said, “there’s a big difference between homemade and handmade, and your clothes are handmade.” They were quality. I am from 17 th Street and ranch houses with one-car garages attac

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1: The Misanthropic. (Name something you absolutely hate). Rap--the noise, the clothes, the objectivity of women, the women who enable it, the morons who play it at inhuman decible levels from their stupid cars 2: The Meretricious: (Expose someone or something that's phony, fraudulent or bogus). I'm thinking Joel Osteen, pastor and author, although it's not for me to say. 3: The Malcontent: (Name something you're unhappy with). The shredded wallpaper on my bathroom walls. Removing it is an ugly job. Also, those pesky 20 pounds--I like wine and chocolate, just a little. Oh, and I don't like exercise. 4: The Meritorious. (Give someone credit for something and name it if you can). My friend Carolyn had a vision--to start her own business. And she has built a lovely yarn shop that is a jewel in our town. She's a trooper. 5: The Mirror. (See something good about yourself and name it). When I am determined to do something, not much can stop me--like learning to play t

I hosted a candle party yesterday. In all my years, I have never hosted any retail party and never wanted to. I don't mind attending the occasional Pampered Chef get together, although I think the food can be schlocky, and I don't mind the occasional Taste of Home party or jewelry party. But I have never been even remotely interested in hosting one myself. Last fall, a friend hosted a candle party, and I went just to see why people would go out of their way to buy candles. It was kind of fun, so I unsuspectingly sat down at the table to place an order. The next thing I know, I'm signed up to host a gathering, and there you go. Be careful where you sit. It's not that I don't want to invite people to my house, and it's not that I don't want to make snacky things for them to munch on--I thoroughly enjoy both of those things. It's just that I can't stand sitting by the phone waiting for RSVPs . I invited 28 people, and by Saturday, I had only heard from

I have entered my novel wanna-be, Maryann, now entitled Mrs. Branch , in a writing competition called First Chapters. It's sponsored by Touchstone/Simon & Shuster, and it takes place here. Vote for me, vote for me, vote for me. Because of the competition, I have deleted my own Maryann site--she has moved onto other mediums, hopefully paper and ink.

1. I once worked at City Hall in Chicago investigating voter fraud. for two weeks during spring break in college, I worked at City Hall. I was given a box of voter registration cards and had to call all the people at home because they were suspected of voter fraud--it's Chicago, so they were most likely dead. Odd that no one was at home. 2. I once played a recorder duet with a member of the Chicago Chamber Orchestra--Christmas carols I went to a Christmas party with my sister that was hosted by a CCO recorder player. We ran through all of the familiar carols while everyone else sang. Very fun. 3. I sing alto in the church choir. Dive got it right. I used to sing in the choir, but I quit years ago. I like to sing for fun when no one is around, but I don't fancy singing in groups. 4. My right ear is pierced with three holes. Yep, three on the right and two on the left. 5. I can't whistle. Seems to be biologically impossible and has been a handicap on occasion when my summer c

Dive hasn't tagged me for this--in fact, he has specifically NOT tagged me, but I will play anyway. Five Things You Don't Know About Me (Only Four Of Which are True) … and Which One's Not True?" 1. I once worked at City Hall in Chicago investigating voter fraud. 2. I once played a recorder duet with a member of the Chicago Chamber Orchestra--Christmas carols 3. I sing alto in the church choir. 4. My right ear is pierced with three holes. 5. I can't whistle. There you go--I can't think of five people to tag who haven't already been tagged--oh, except Gina, Rich, and Lou. Oh, and there's Lizard who doesn't have a site of her own but can borrow my comment box if she wants. Same with sister #1.

My goodness, there are so many things to acknowledge this morning: First, it's Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's birthday. Last year I read the book Marrying Mozart (don't bother, is what I have to say about that). I know who he married, so there is no mystery or anticipation when reading about how he dated all of her sisters first. I have been trudging through his 2 nd horn concerto for months and months with my horn teacher, apparently unable to play the 16 th notes smooth enough. Today, in Mozart's honor, I'll give it another shot. Second, it is the birthday of Jerome Kern. What a song writer! Ol ' Man River, Smoke Gets In Your Eyes, Only Make Believe (I was just a kid when I first heard Howard Keel singing Only Make Believe in Showboat, and I was suddenly in love--was it with Keel's deep and chocolaty voice, or was it Kern's sense of melody--maybe both). And when Fred Astaire sings The Way You Look Tonight in Swing Time--swoon. Yes, I know Astaire was doi

We would all agree the world would be much nicer if we did not include selfishness and arrogance in our list of character traits. The "I am right and you are wrong" world view inevitably leads to global death and destruction. At the very least, it leads to an impasse in communication. But I like to think on a smaller scale, as you may have noticed, so I will now fill in the blank with things that are closer to home. The world would be much nicer if___________: ...we didn't think women needed to be thin to be attractive. Or for that matter, we wouldn't think that women needed to be attractive at all. That way, we could all enjoy an occasional piece of cake and plenty of wine without feeling as though we were overindulging and doing something very very bad. ...I could have fluffy lemon pancakes every morning for breakfast without having to buy bigger clothes. ...we didn't make so many gender distinctions, so people could be people first and do their jobs and live d

A few days ago, our town experienced a very upsetting fatal accident. I say "our town" even though I realize that corporately we can not experience it to the extent the family of those who died are suffering. But we are all disturbed. A 16 year old girl was driving with her 89 year old grandmother as a passenger. We had had a spell of bad weather, and they hit an icy spot on the road. The girl lost control of the car, crashed through a guard rail, and drove straight through into the river. A moderately sized river snakes through our community, and in many spots it isn't more than a few feet deep. But we have had some crazy rains lately, and on Sunday the river was swollen and flowing quickly. There were a lot of witnesses, and some even jumped into the cold water to help them escape the car, but there was nothing they could do. So, on Saturday, a family will bury their only child and their mother. The funeral will be at the Catholic church, and some of the girl's frie

Yesterday, Sassy asked what realizations put us into a panic, what causes us to wake up screaming. I don't think she meant that literally, not like waking up from an actual dream. But I do literally wake up screaming from actual dreams. Well, it's not an actual screaming, it's more like a deep gasp full of panic and dread, like taking in a breath so deeply people across the street can hear you filling up your lungs. And it's not an actual dream that causes it--it's more like a sense of danger and the need to flee from it. I used to have these "don't-eat-me-you-scary-monster-dreams" when I was a kid. I would be in some level of sleep and would feel myself shrinking, and then I would sit up in my bed and scream, or gasp. Sometimes I would run across the hall and jump into my parents' bed, or if I was sharing a room with a sister, she would have to calm my fears. But then I started having the "don't-eat-me-you-scary-monster-dreams" a few

Watcha thinkin' about? How many times have I answered "oh, nothin'" to that question--almost every time it's asked. It's like saying "fine" when people ask "how are ya?" because that's how you are supposed to answer. You say "Nothin'" when really, there is always something, but you don't want to have to explain the thoughts in your head. You don't want to admit to thinking about how many leaves fall per minute from the cherry tree in the front yard on a gusty day. And why haven't all the leaves fallen because, after all, it's January. You wouldn't want to have to confess to thinking about how maybe the air flow is modified by the shapes of the surrounding houses, so only part of the tree is affected by the wind, and the rest is shielded so it can cling to its dry, ugly leaves until spring. Or you wouldn't want to admit to thinking about how you wish you had more elastic in your socks because the wor

Your Inner European is French! Smart and sophisticated. You have the best of everything - at least, *you* think so. Who's Your Inner European?

Today marks the anniversary of the premier of Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In in 1968. My parents called it "mod," and we watched it every week. We gathered in front of the TV for an hour of innuendo, skinny chicks in bikinis, off-color jokes, and silly gags--remember the wall full of doors that opened seemingly at random to reveal regular cast members and their dopey one liners? Or Goldie Hawn acting stupid? Or Joanne Worley with that obnoxious cackling? I never understood why that show was permitted in our house. We were strict Baptists--tee totalling people with knee-length skirts who weren't allowed to dance and weren't allowed to listen to rock-n-roll and weren't allowed to say even words like dern or gosh or darn it. We went to church every week and competed in Bible drills and Sunday school attendance contests with red and blue teams. Yet, on Monday evenings, we watched the entire hour of Laugh-In. I remember hearing a joke I was sure I shouldn't be he

While I'm on the subject, here is one more thing about my father. Last night I found a character sketch I had written about him for a college assignment in 1982. Even the paper it was typed on looks old--and yes, I said "typed." I had a big, noisy Royal electric. Here is an excerpt from the sketch--I find it interesting because now 25 years later and years after my father has died, I still describe him in the same terms: It's a big event when he makes his annual pot of stew. The counter is covered with pounds of chicken, pork, beef, cans of corn, beans, tomatoes, bags of potatoes, bottles of catsup, hot sauce, cloves of garlic, shakers of pepper, salt, curry powder, sage, sweet hazel, and a pinch of tobacco here and there. He stirs the big pot for hours, and we go in shifts watching it. When it's finally done, he dumps it into boxes and boxes of Ball jars. Then he stores it in the dark corner of the basement, grins, and says, "It's gonna be a long, hard w

Today my father would have been 87. He was born before talking films, before women were given the right to vote (or about the same time), before the average American had a car, before electricity was common in the south, before The Great Depression, before the atom bomb. There is an old bridge that crosses the Tennessee River and enters Decatur, Alabama, the town where I was born. I remember riding across it on our annual trip to see relatives and making note of the sign on the bridge, something about it being completed in 1925. I was amazed to hear my father talk about the day it was dedicated, and the whole town went down to the river on their horses and in their wagons. He was five years old and remembered it as a big day. For as long as I can remember I have been enamored with old movies, and if I had any free time at all I would sit myself down in front of the TV and watch some flickering old film. My father could never understand it. "Why do you wanna watch some old movie--t

I bought myself a pair of drug-store reading glasses. All of my life, so far, I have had not just perfect eye sight but super perfect eye sight. I can read a road sign from miles away. I can read the bottom line of the chart from across the room with a flock of geese flying by. I can make out the fine print on the back of the most detailed insurance forms. But now in my 40s, my eyes have decided they don't want to read the close-up things without added fuzz, and they don't want to focus automatically when they should. They are rebelling, or maybe they are just tired of my bragging and boasting. So, I bought a cheap pair of reading specs--$12.99--black frames with gold dots--I thought they should at least be cool. But now that I have them, I seem to be avoiding close-up reading so I won't have to wear them. My computer is at least a foot away, and my music stand is even farther. Also, after confessing that I have the ability to flare my nostrils at will, I am self-conscious

As assigned by Dive: The spice cabinet. I didn't bother tweaking the shot in Photoshop --it is what it is.

I live a solid six-hour drive from the town I grew up in Indiana, and I rarely go back for a visit. My family has moved to other places, so there is really no reason to go. But when we do drive through town on our way to some other place, I always make sure we drive down my old street, 17th Street. My house faced a kind of half-street driveway that didn't go all the way through to the other streets, and we shared this driveway with the Quigleys next door. Kitty was my first friend, and I spent a lot of days and nights at her house. Once a week or so, I check the website of my hometown paper, morbidly skimming the obituaries to see what people I knew as a kid have died. I'm not sure why I do that, but last night I read the Mrs. Quigley, Kitty's mother, died of lung cancer. You would think I would not be so disturbed by the death of someone I haven't seen in over 15 years. But I was shocked. I hesitate to say that I didn't know she was sick because it sounds like an o

This picture is a bit fuzzy, but it serves its purpose, which is to show my personally handmade and customized sweater. It is knitted in a moss/seed stitch, and it has asymmetrical shaping--if I make another sweater using this pattern again, I think I might make it a little longer. It's supposed to be cropped, but when I wear it, I feel like I have to keep tugging at it.

Here is a recipe for some of the best filets I have ever had--again, not because I am a brilliant chef, but because this is a brilliant recipe. I found it at epicurious.com. Enjoy. BLUE-CHEESE-CRUSTED STEAKS WITH RED WINE SAUCE 4 tablespoons chilled unsalted butter 3 garlic cloves, chopped 1 large shallot, chopped 1 tablespoon chopped fresh thyme 3/4 cup beef broth 1/2 cup dry red wine 1/2 cup coarsely crumbled blue cheese (about 2 ounces) 1/4 cup panko (Japanese breadcrumbs)* 1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley 4 1-inch-thick filet mignon steaks (each 6 to 8 ounces) Melt 1 tablespoon butter in heavy medium skillet over medium-high heat. Add garlic, shallot, and thyme. Sauté until shallot is tender, about 5 minutes. Add broth and wine. Boil until sauce is reduced to 1/2 cup, about 12 minutes. Set sauce aside. Blend cheese, panko, and parsley in small bowl to coat cheese evenly with panko. (Sauce and cheese mixture can be made 1 day ahead. Cover separately and chill.) Preheat broiler. Me

I like to a cook--a lot. Not the every day, day after day cooking, which becomes so tiresome I sometimes wish we would all be happy with a sandwich for dinner. I like cooking for special occasions. I like to invite people to my house and feed them. I like having them sit down for a meal and feel comfortable and rest their elbows on the table, if that's what makes them happy. And let's all have another glass of wine. It isn't a selfless act on my part because I get great satisfaction from the whole experience. I also get compliments because, evidently, I cook fairly well. I don't believe my food is good because of some innate talent or well-honed skill on my part. I think it's because I have an eye for a good recipe. Anybody can create a good meal if they start with the right instructions and a good bottle of wine. Who was it who said, "I like to cook with wine, and sometimes I add it to the food." Anyway, the comments I hear often is, "Please don'

...to A. A. Milne.

Turner Classic Movies has been running Cary Grant movies all day on account of it's his birthday. I hardly recognized any of the film titles, though. There are so many great films that would be perfect for today: Bringing up Baby, North By Northwest, An Affair to Remember, Notorious, Arsenic and Old Lace, The Philadelphia Story, The Bishop's Wife, Topper. But not one of those was on the schedule. It's a good thing I didn't have time to sit around and watch TCM today anyway, because if this had been a rainy, sleepy day, and if I had had a miserable cold and had been in need of old-movie comfort, I would have been left high and dry. Today is also the birthday of Danny Kaye--if I only a had a copy of The Secret Life of Walter Middy.

After reading my story this morning, my sister wrote about how she went on an "outing" once and actually saw Al Capone's hideaway in the dunes. She didn't tell anybody about it at the time because she would have gotten in a lot of trouble for wandering around out on the beach. Here is her description: It was probably about 1967. We walked way down the beach toward Michigan City, so far we could see the docks way off in the distance. It seemed like we could look straight across the lake and see Chicago, instead of looking at it from the side. The guys may have even known it was there because I think we had been talking about the tales. You could just see a bit of the tile roof from the beach. It was set behind the first row of the dunes. It had obviously been totally abandon for a long time, but it was still beautiful – and kind of spooky. It looked like an Italian palazzo laid out in a square with a big open courtyard in the middle. There were a few remnants of

Today is the birthday of Al Capone, one of the most notorious gangsters in American history. The lower east side of Lake Michigan, where I grew up, is lined with huge sand dunes, some of them so large they have names, like Mount Tom. And the rumor I grew up hearing is that Capone's hideout was a secret spot in those dunes. I never saw it, but I do have a connection to the Chicago mafia. When I was six, and my sister was twelve, my mother started taking us to piano lessons with Mrs. Graw . Mrs. Graw was an older woman who lived in a little house in the next town, and she taught piano lessons in her living room. Once a week, we went to see her. I would sit on the couch with my mother while my sister had her 30-minute lesson, and then we would switch places, and I would play Turkey In the Straw and Three Blind Mice with two hands. Mrs. Graw had a black dog of some kind that liked to lay under the piano bench and lick himself, so that during the rests you would hear that sloppy, wet

The other day, Kate Isis asked what people were hit with as a kid. It seemed like such an odd question but an interesting one, because most people have been hit with things--old shoes, rolled up magazines, a wooden spoon, the back of a hand. It seems like you shouldn't have to list the objects, but the sad fact is, people use all kinds of tools to keep their kids in line. My mother liked the fly swatter, which I have discussed before. At Christmas, when my sisters and I were all in the kitchen, one of them said she had seen a talking fly swatter in a catalog and thought about buying it for my mother. We had quite a time coming up with the phrases that fly swatter would recite--You're sorry? You'll BE sorry. You don't know what sorry is. I'll show you SORRY. Oh, what a chuckle. Seriously, when you're an adult, you have to be able to laugh at most of the damage your parents did or you'd never have any kind of relationship with them. It's all part of the tw

It's Martin Luther King Day, so there is no school, the banks are closed, and the mail service is haulted. That's how we honor people and events here--we take the day off. I was raised by people from the segregated south, and in northern Indiana, they seemed pretty pleased that our little community was just as segregated. To my parents, Martin Luther King was nothing more than a pot-stirring communist and undeserving of honor. It wasn't until I was in college when I heard the full "I Have A Dream Speech" as part of an American Government assignment. I remember sitting in the audio room of the school library, wearing those big brown headphones, and MLK's voice was booming from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. I was so captivated, I listened to it over and over again. "We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence"--those are words of inspi

The other day, there was some discussion on the different songs we all keep in our heads, and they come out from time to time. Here is me mumbling through one of my regulars--there were a couple of cats banging around, knocking into things and rattling plastic bags. If you listen carefully, you can hear them. powered by ODEO

I rolled a Yahtzee not even five minutes into the game. Haven't done that in years. Have a peaceful weekend.

I play tenor recorder in my church from time to time. I think I have mentioned that before. Usually when I play, it's during the prelude, which means the sanctuary is filled with yappers who don't hear me and my friend on keyboard because of all their yapping. The rule is, by the way, the louder you play, the louder they yap. Anyway...I could go on about that irritation, but I won't...I am playing in an ensemble this coming Sunday that includes a hammered dulcimer, a soprano recorder, an acoustic guitar, and a viola...and me. We will be playing My Shepherd Will Supply My Needs, an old folk tune written in 1835 based on Psalm 23. It is as lovely as Amazing Grace or Shenendoah or Ashokan Farewell (which I realize is a modern tune made to sound old). My Shepherd is a tune I have played on my soprano recorder for my own enjoyment for years, so I am excited about playing it with this group. Here is the main reason for today's post. I wish you could all know Fred and Louis

Okey-dokey artichokey. I have read that is how Hillary Clinton concludes her staff meetings. I'm not sure if that's true, but I like to think it is. I like to think that people in monumental jobs can act and talk like the off-the-rack day-ware people, the people who don't make the news and who don't tilt the axis. I think more people in monumental jobs should say silly phrases and say them publicly. Enough with the debate over whether an action is a surge or an escalation. Enough with tossing words around in order to effect public opinion. Let's have the monumental people say silly things into a microphone so we can see them as human beings, and then we might connect with them just a bit more, the way we connect with Gomer Pyle when he says something like, "Shazam." Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle. Sufferin' succotash. Golly gee willickers. Gad zooks. Jinxy. Holy moly. These are all phrases and words you would never expect to hear from someone w

Those crazy slap-sticky guys--The Banana Splits. The song , as noted by Sassy.

In a commenting frenzy on Dive's site yesterday, the subject of HR Pufnstuf came up. Enough people were clueless about the show, and it was suggested that I post about it to clear things up. The thing is, it has been written about plenty--entire sites are devoted to the show. In doing some poking around, I found other shows from the 60s and early 70s, however, that reminded me of the glorious days of Saturday morning cartoons. In the days when kids only had a few TV channels to choose from and didn't spend hours and hours every day in front of the tube, Saturday mornings were special. Saturday mornings were devoted to cartoons that were not seen any other day. You would sleep in just a little, and then, with blanket in hand, drag yourself to your favorite spot in front of the TV. You would switch it on with the knob and turn the dial to ABC or NBC of CBS, and you would settle into the orange shag carpet with your bowl of Fruit Loops and a luke warm glass of Tang for a few hours

I have added a new reading to my daily list, The Writer's Almanac . Every day, there is a poem and acknowledgements about various artists on their birthdays. It is becoming one of my favorite stops for the day. On Sunday, the featured poem was Guys Like That by Joyce Sutphen . Here is an excerpt: Guys Like That Drive very nice cars... Guys who look like that — so clean and cool — are quietly moving money across the border, cooking books, making deals that leave some people rich and some people poorer than they were before guys like that robbed them at the pump and on their electricity bills, and even now, guys like that are planning how to divide up that little farm they just passed, the one you used to call home. There is this notion in some circles that all bosses are bad, and anybody who has anything must have gotten it by taking it away from someone else. I know this concept well because I was raised by people who taught it to me every day by the way they talked about their bos

...when you have a slipped disc...or when Lucifer has taken his bloodless, boney index finger and run it across your vertibrae, one at a time like a mallet on a marimba, his spikey, filthy fingernail clickety-click against the bones, retracting the muscles into an angry and immovable mass. -standing -sitting -laying down -getting up from a laying down position -sneezing -working at your desk -playing a French horn -petting the cat -picking up dropped items -washing the dishes -buying groceries -vacuuming -getting in and out of the car -not moving for 20 minutes at a time

Tapenade 3 (8-ounce) cans of pitted black olives, drained 3/4 cup sun-dried tomatoes packed in olive oil Extra-virgin olive oil 3 heads endive (about 1/2 pound) In the bowl of a food processor, add the olives, sun-dried tomatoes and the olive oil it was packed in. Pulse until smooth, but still chunky. Add more extra-virgin olive oil if mixture is too dry. Spoon into a serving bowl. If not serving immediately, cover tightly with plastic wrap and refrigerate up to 2 days. Be sure to bring it to room temperature and to mix it thoroughly before serving. Gently pull off the leaves from the endive, being carefully not to tear the leaves. Wash thoroughly with cold water and dry completely. Place the bowl of tapenade in the center of a large platter. Decoratively arrange the endive leaves around the tapenade bowl. Crab Salad 6 ounces lump white crab meat, broken into small pieces with your fingertips 1/4 red bell pepper, finely chopped 1 shallot, finely chopped 1 orange, zested 3 radishes, gra

The other day, I was buying groceries at The Store, and I watched all my selections travel down the conveyor belt. The cashier scanned everything one at a time and slid it down to the bag man (sometimes our bag people are men who look as if they have retired from grander jobs and now bag groceries just for something to do). Anyway, we got down to the last few items, and the cashier picked up a plastic bag containing two small oblong looking vegetable things. They were whitish with green ends, and they had leaves you could pull off. That's exactly what I was going to do with them--I was going to trim the leaves and mound them with smoked salmon spread. I like these little natural spoon like things--they're great with tapenade or crabmeat salad. So, the cashier held up the bag and asked, "what are these?" I know what those are, for Pete's sake. I purposely put them in the plastic bag and tied the end in a knot. I tossed them in my cart and brought them to the convey

...or Music STUCK in My Ears. Dive has posted an assignment, to name a song(s) that is hard-wired in our brains. I have been thinking about this very thing the last week or so as I come off of the Christmas frenzy. I tend to break out into song, especially when I am alone. It's a subconscious thing, so much so that I am not always aware I have begun singing until I am into the second phrase. I think it started when I was a kid, and my mother would launch into a tirade about one thing or another--laundry that hasn't been moved from the washer to the dryer, or dishes that haven't been washed, or bedsheets that haven't been changed. I developed a Pavlovian response of singing when I heard that piercing screech through the house. And my mother would have to say, "Stop singing when I'm talking to you." I saw humor in a mother having to scold her child for singing over her yelling, which didn't go over well either. Anyway, I no longer have a flyswatter hangi

Today is the anniversary of Henry VIII and Anne of Cleves (1540). Their marriage lasted six months. It is also the anniversary of George and Martha Washington (1759) and George and Barbara Bush (1945). And after today, it will be the anniversary of a girl I taught in Sunday school when she was six or so. I will feel old during the ceremony, but I am content with my age. In trying to find a card for their gift, I had trouble finding one that wasn't sappy or silly or unimaginative or grandmotherish . I finally settled on one with a loose-lined ink drawing of a cake, and it reads "big cake, big hopes, big dreams, big day, congratulations ." I am imagining the kind of card one would give to Anne of Cleves --one with an illustration of the Fat Man, with the inside sentiment reading, "don't do it."

Lest you all think my town is a utopia, here is an excerpt from today's paper. This comes from the 30 Seconds column, an answering machine people can call and leave anonymous opinions about whatever they'd like. I have mentioned this ingenious feature before. These calls are in response to someone who called a few days ago complaining about how they had been church shopping in the area, and in every service they sat through, people were chewing gum. They thought it was unnecessary and inappropriate to chew gum. Here is the response from the community: In regard to the person complaining about chewing gum in church, if they were focused on what they should be focused on, they wouldn’t notice the people chewing gum. That’s why people are reluctant to go to church, because of people passing judgment on them. They’re supposed to love and not judge. EDITOR’S NOTE: Several similar calls were received. * * * I would rather see gum chewing in church than smell somebody’s bad breath. I

This picture was in my Small Town paper this morning for the sole purpose of showing one man helping another by holding a door for him. This building is across the street from my favorite place for joe. (credit: Pat Burk)

I was having a comment exchange over at Crowded Head yesterday (pop over and meet Lou). Given the subject and the obvious necessity for a culture shift toward neighborliness, I believe a discussion of Meet John Doe is in order. Meet John Doe, directed by Frank Capra, was a jewel in the careers of Gary Cooper and Barbara Stanwyck. It was filmed in 1941, just as WW 2 was repairing the financial ruin that defined the 30s, and the general population was reeling from hunger and hopelessness. Stanwyck plays a newspaper reporter, Ann Mitchell, who is about to lose her job. Her father has died, and she is the sole supporter for her and her mother. Out of desperation and using her father's populist writings, she submits a fictitious letter from a down-and-out man, a hobo, and it saves her job. It also launches a series of events that cannot be corked, even by a power-hungry man with political aspirations. Here is the letter that sets up the story: Dear Miss Mitchell: Four years ago, I was

Here is the rest of the book of authors: F. Scott Fitgerald --the decadent era of the 20s The Bronte Sisters--I had forgotten they published using masculine names with Bell as the surname. Virginia Woolf--the group picture is of the Bloomsbury group she was a part of. The desk was her writing desk. Thomas Hardy--his picture is attached to a separator piece using grommets. His signature is attached to the back side. The map is of the Wessex of his fiction and poetry.

We have finished the altered book about some of our favorite authors. It was a nice exercise--like a refresher course in literature as we dug through web sites and our meager collection of books for ideas. Each author was given a picture, a copy of his or her signature (except for the Brontes because they were too many), an excerpt from a quote, and some related imagery. Here is Mark Twain's page. He is one of the most quoted, or over-quoted authors, but I thought this one suited the Huckleberry imagery: The work I have done I have done because it was play. The Edgar Allan Poe page is more macabre with burgundy instead of a pastoral green. John Steinbeck's page is a little more industrial with hardware and a bit of rusted window screen over the classic Depression era photo of the poverty-stricken woman with her children. How many prepositional phrases can I squeeze into one sentence? Cannery row sits below his free-hanging photo. Charles Dickens' main theme of the disparit

This Christmas, my mother gave Daughter #1 a game of checkers, and they played many matches over our holiday visit. When my mother visited us over the summer, she wanted to play checkers. We went to the store, and believe it or not, they didn't sell checkers. They had dozens of Ants in the Pants and Cootie, but no checkers. Both my mother and daughter were disappointed. So, now we have checkers. Over the weekend my daughter and I sat down for a match. She's a smart kid, so I was prepared for a good beating. We played three games straight, and I kicked ass. I yelled King Me! every time I got my man to the back and insisted the top checker be crown side up. It was a fluke, as are most of my successes. Beginner's luck. I am not technically a beginner, having been raised by a checkers champion. My mother is sly at the game, as she is with most games. She sits in her chair, hunched over the board, rattling her opponent's losses in her hands--click, click, clickety--throwing

The other day, Old Knudson sent me a site address that would reveal some history of a part of my family tree, having remembered that I am, somewhere in my roots, a McRee . McRee is evidently derived from MacRae , so I claim the Clan MacRae as my own. This strapping young man with a deer or something slung over his broad shoulders is my kinsman. Quite a wild bunch, those MacRaes , participating in rebellions and squabbles all over Scotland. Their motto was "Fortitude." The illustration to the right depicts their--no, OUR family crests. I have recorded history of my family tree back to Thomas Compton born in Northampton , England, 1754*. He emigrated to the colonies in the later 1700s with his family through a port in Boston and eventually settled in Tennessee. But I can only trace the McRee connection back as far as Thomas Richard McRee born in 1867. It goes like this. Alfred McVey Compton (1842-1913) married Mary Frances Abernathy (1834-1903). Here they are on the lef