The Farm

This is Rose Hill Farm. The property line ends at the tree line.



The land belongs to my in-laws. My husband has always lived here and he helps his father farm it. Of these four houses, the one on the far left is the old homestead, the white one in the middle is a new home on property sold at the request of the paternal grandmother when she passed away, the white house on the hill belongs to the in-laws, and the home behind that in the woods belongs to my husband's aunt.



Some of the fields have been cut for hay. It looks like a good first cutting.



I live back behind the trees. I have walked quite a ways to take this picture.



My husband's grandfather built these small brick houses in the 1960s. He rented them out for a long time then sold them. We lived in one of them when we first married. Then we built on the other side of the farm.



This is the backside of my husband's grandparents' home. It dates back to 1816. The bricks were made by hand on the farm. The walls are 18 inches thick.



This is the front of the house. The place is no longer part of the farm, sold per instructions in a will.



This is what we raise. This is the bull and his harem.



This is the farmer, my husband.

Thursday Thirteen

1. I learned last night as I was reading the May issue of The Writer that author Phyllis Whitney passed away in February.

2. She was 104.

3. She started publishing in 1941 and was still knocking out books in 1997 - she would have been 93 when that last one was published.

4. Her website calls her books "adult suspense" but I thought of them as Gothic romances.

5. All in all, she published 76 books and hundreds of short stories.

6. Her book Thunder Heights, written in the 1960s, was one of my favorite books, and my inspiration for being a writer, I think.

7. There aren't many "adult suspense" or Gothic romance writers out and about today. Or if there are, I am not aware of them.

8. My other favorite authors of that genre were Victoria Holt and Barbara Michaels. I think Whitney and these other two were giants of the genre.

9. But Whitney remained my favorite and looking at the very long list of books she wrote I think I have read most of the "adult suspense" ones.

10. Whitney also wrote a book called Guide to Fiction Writing, published in 1982.

11. It sits on my "frequently used" bookshelf.

12. Guide to Fiction Writing has some of the best techniques for creating a notebook of characters and describes how to go about writing a book better than any other book I have ever read.

13. And I have read a lot of other books about how to do it.



Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; you can learn more about it here. My other Thursday Thirteens are here.

Spring Flowers

First Rose of 2008



Sunshine Pansies



Peters Gold Carpet Biden



Iris



Locust Blossoms

Playing God

An article in yesterday's Roanoke Times highlighted a recommendation from a task force about who lives and who dies in the event of a health crisis.

It ran in other papers, too.

This should open up a dialogue about our health care, and about our values as a society. I daresay that will not happen.

We tend to ignore the things that most warrant our attention, I notice.

In any event, should we have an outbreak of pandemic flu, for example, these people for sure will be left for dead:

Those out of luck are the people at high risk of death and a slim chance of long-term survival. But the recommendations get much more specific, and include:

_People older than 85.

_Those with severe trauma, which could include critical injuries from car crashes and shootings.

_Severely burned patients older than 60.

_Those with severe mental impairment, which could include advanced Alzheimer's disease.

_Those with a severe chronic disease, such as advanced heart failure, lung disease or poorly controlled diabetes.

But I wonder why stop there? Any why just with a pandemic - why not with cancer cures, pneumonia shots, insulin - any of the things that the "lesser" folks need to survive?

After all, we already section out health care based on ability to pay. If you've got the money, you get the best care. If you've served in Congress, you get good care, too.

If you're middle class, you get poor to fair care. You might still get a flu shot.

If you're poor, well, you get the idea. Some hospital might take you in, only to dump you on the street the next day.

If it's the young and vibrant, those with skinny bodies, healthy tans and white teeth that we're looking for, then a pandemic is certainly a good way to root out all of us who miss the mark. Just withhold the drugs and take us all out at one time. It would leave the perfect society, wouldn't it?

The government has touted this pandemic thing very hard in recent years (it was never on my radar until this Administration). So much so, I strongly suspect they are hoping for one in order to wipe out all of us slobs who don't fit their idea of a perfect specimen. It would be a great way to cleanse the population.

This is wrong on so many levels I can't even begin to list them. This is amoral and it shows plainly how little regard that we as a society actually have for one another.

If this is what comes from a supposedly Christian nation, then God help us all.

Around the Woods

*Virginia Creeper* not poison oak. I am very allergic to poison oak and will break out just looking at it.



This is either a wild violet or the common periwinkle, I am not sure which.



Dogwood tree in bloom.



Dogwood blossom.



A fern, perhaps a Royal Fern.



Mayapple



Tree trunk.

* edited per comment from Ron and a check in the field guide*

Around the Yard

Snappy Snapdragons



Dogwoods and redbuds in the forest below the house.



The birch tree. We planted this at least 20 years ago. The mother plant is over at my parents' farm; as a child I played among its branches. It's a huge tree; I think it is very old. This one in our yard is slow-growing.



Birch tree blossoms.



Purple Petunias playing in the yard.

Smashed!

No, not drunk.

More like EEEYOWWW!

I caught my four fingers of my right hand in the garage door this morning. It hit right across the top joint of the longest three fingers and caught the end of my poor pinky.

Thankfully, I can still type!

The Disappearing Book

Today I spent $20 on a book I already have. I couldn't find it when I went to look for it, so I bought a new copy from the local history museum.

Of course I came home and straightaway found my copy. I had been looking for a red jacket hard cover book and not a soft cover. I completely overlooked it.

The book I was missing is The Town of Fincastle, by Frances Niederer. It was first published in 1965 and last reissued in 2004 in paperback. It is the most current study of the town, as far as I know.

I have a collection of local history books which I often refer to in my work. I love to write history pieces for the newspaper. So I don't mind dropping $$$ for a local history book every now and again.

While I was there, I also bought Notable Women West of the Blue Ridge, 1850 - 1950. I am looking forward to reading that.

When I went to write this blog entry, I thought I would put the two Fincastle books together. Because really what I was going to do was offer the book to someone for the same price I paid, if they were so inclined. I was going to say, email me if you're interested.

Only now I can't find the books I brought home with me.

The Fincastle book is a slim volume; I can see where I might have put that down. But the other is a good-sized book. It's cover is bluish gray with ladies on the front. I should see it here someplace.

I have searched everywhere I think I have been since I came home, and I can't find either book. I know I brought them in the house and placed them on the kitchen counter but they aren't there now and I haven't the faintest idea where I've stashed them.

I am the only one at home right now.

If I am this bad at 44 years and 11 months old, I will be absolutely in a state of crisis when my birthday rolls around in June!

It is a very good thing I found the original book.

Thursday Thirteen

Today, from the woman who watches very little TV, I present, in no particular order:

My Favorite TV Themes!

1. Cagney & Lacey. This is one of my favorite shows, period, and when I hear that intro, it's time to sit down and spend an hour with my favorite gals.

2. Gilligan's Island. Who can resist this show? Stranded on an island, seven of the most mixed bag of folks you could imagine (in the 1960s) try to get along and get off their little piece of heave.

3. Green Acres. From the first tones, you know you're getting ready to watch two city slickers try to turn themselves into country folk. Always worth a laugh.

4. Xena: Warrior Princess. Another favorite show. Xena lost her way a bit toward the end but she remains in my mind as a staunch example of women who take only "yes" for an answer.

5. The Brady Bunch. I grew up with this show. I never missed it. They were the family I always wanted.

6. MASH. While this wasn't always "must see" TV for me, I enjoyed it and enjoy it even more in reruns. I love the theme but I especially like the theme lyrics, which you can read here.

7. Survivor: Whatever. I am ashamed to say that I have watched this show from its inception and continue to watch it today. It is the only reality show I watch, and I honestly don't know why I watch it. There is nothing appealing about it, and every year I say I'm not going to watch, but I do. When I hear those first jungle noises, I'm in front of the set.

8. Bewitched. I could never resist the magic in this show. Samantha wiggles her nose and poof, stuff happens. A great fantasy.

9. The Carol Burnette Show. I wish there were shows like this on today. Then maybe I'd watch something other than Survivor!

10. Charlie's Angels. More women taking names. I thought Kate Jackson was the greatest actress in the world, when I was 12.

11. Little House on the Prairie. I saw this in rerun as opposed to when it actually ran because we couldn't get the channel. I don't recall it appealing to me as a young person but as an adult I enjoy the wholesome nature of the program.

12. The Facts of Life. Ha. Jo used to crack me up all the time. She was the kid I could never be because I was a goody-goody.

13. The Partridge Family. I admit it. I was in love with Keith. I couldn't help myself. Besides, I was only 9.


Thursday Thirteen is played by lots of people; you can learn more about it here. My other Thursday Thirteens are here.

Something for Nothing

Monday my email inbox for the account I use for business pronounced itself "full." I could neither send nor receive email.

I called my provider to find out what was going on, as this had never happened before.

Oh, said the kind fellow on the other end of the phone, your mailbox was full (huh?) but now it's not. And I've increased your mailbox size.

Is that going to cost me? I asked, being a little tight in the wallet these days.

Oh no, said the fellow. And did you know we can double your Internet speed? Let me hand you over to a sales person.

Yay. A little something for nothing. Although I wondered why, if my mailbox could have been expanded, it simply wasn't expanded without my having to ask, not to mention experiencing the risk of missing important communication from an editor.

The higher speed - double the rate I have now - could be had for a measly $5 more a month, the chipper sales lady told me.

Do I need a new modem box or something for that?

Oh no. Just pay the $5 extra each month and zap! You have a faster connection.

Why can't you just give me that, I asked. I'm already paying you $90 a month for telephone and Internet services. I've been a customer for 25 years. Can't you cut me a deal?

Oh no, says the sales clerk. I certainly can't do that.

And I can't give you $5 more a month for something so nebulous, my dear.

Dibbas

When I was growing up in the late 1960s and early 1970s, we did not have computers or video games or even that much TV to take up our time.

My mother worked full time and I spent my early days with my grandmother. She was still raising two boys herself, an uncle who is five years older than I and another uncle who is a year younger than I (and born on my first birthday). My brother came along three years later, so Grandma had a house full.

We spent idyllic days playing outside as much as possible. As soon as the weather warmed we were out the door. We played tag, rode tricycles and bicycles around in circles, and forced dolls and army men to interact.

I spent an enormous amount of time surveying the yard looking for four leaf clovers. I also made lots of necklaces out of the clover flowers, which I presented to my mother in the evenings when she came to pick us up.

In late spring, the maple trees would shed their seeds. These rained down from the treetops in a shower, fluttering to the ground as the wind shook the leaves.



I would stand among them as they fell, enchanted. The seeds would spin around as if they were propellers.

And because they looked like propellers, they required a sound when I scooped them up and tossed them in the air to watch them fall again.

Dibba-dibba-dibba-dibba-dibba-dibba! I cried as nature's toy fled from my hand and into the sky. (I have never been very good at making car noises, gun shot noises, and similar things that boys seem to excel at.)

Soon these tiny seeds became known, at least to me, as dibba-dibbas.

I was reminded of this last Thursday. I was in Salem visiting my aunt, who was in from Georgia. As I left, the wind kicked up and a torrent of maple seeds from across the street flew straight into me.

"Dibba dibbas!" I exclaimed aloud, after which I was grateful no one was standing outside. My mind filled with instant memories of Grandma's house and the side yard where the maple trees provided shade and entertainment.

Proving, I think, that childhood never really leaves us. It simply lays there, awaiting a prompt.

The War Is Over

Over the weekend, Buchanan held a Civil War re-enactment.



The Blue and Gray were in full force all over the tiny community.



Saturday we went to see what was happening. We missed most of the parade.



Down on the ball field, they held a mock battle, complete with cannons and lots of smelly smoke.



The soldiers charged one another and hit their swords together with mighty clangs.



Meanwhile, the rebs took shots at the Union men as they marched down the field.



I couldn't tell you who won this little battle.



I am pretty sure I know who won the real war, though.

Over the Fence

Thursday, William Fleming battled LBHS in a round of baseball.

We went to watch the nephew at shortstop.



During the first inning it looked like Fleming came to play and LB stayed home, but my alma mater picked up the pace when they went to bat.



The game ended early because of the slaughter rule.



The nephew hit a home run, above, early in the 4th inning.

We were thrilled!

Rain

Books: Water for Elephants

Water for Elephants
By Sara Gruen
Copyright 2006
350 pages

This is one of the better books I have read recently. This story takes on aging, the circus, love, man v. man, man v. animals, man v. self.

It is an epic story. Ninety-three year old Jacob sees a circus setting up across the street from his nursing home and he begins to remember the 1930s and the time he joined the circus.

He falls in love, falls in hate and eventually finds himself in this simply wonderful book. Marlena is the object of his desire, but she is married to August. August becomes Jacob's boss when the young man joins the circus to escape the pain of his parents' unexpected death in a car wreck.

Fortunately for Jacob, he was one test away from becoming a veterinarian, so he is immediately useful to the traveling carnival.

The circus is described as dog-eat-dog but the author so skillfully weaves in the details that you never notice you're getting a history lesson as you read.

I don't want to give away any more of the plot, so I will simply urge you to read this book.

5 stars (which is as high as I go)

Books: Born to Be

Become Who You Were Born to Be
By Brian Souza
Copyright 2007
Audiobook read by Don Leslie
Unabridged

This book is about finding your "gift" and in essence doing what you love. If you're bored, tired, frustrated, etc., the hypothesis is it's because you haven't found your gift.

This book doesn't really tell you how to go about finding out what that your gift is, but it strongly urges you to do so.

"Just as musicians must make music, poets must write, and artists must paint, we all have a unique gift designed for a specific vocation that will bring both meaning and purpose to our lives," says the book jacket.

This purports to be a blueprint towards doing that but apparently I need a better blueprint. There were many examples of folks who made good - little biographies that were quite interesting about people who overcame terrific odds to go on to find their gifts and become great citizens.

The book cites the website, http://borntobe.com multiple times. Unfortunately I wasn't too impressed when the site so I can't recommend it. It doesn't look like it has been updated since 2006.

2.5 stars for the interesting biographies

Thursday Thirteen: Weeds

1. During our gardening last week, I ran across the plant below. I have no idea what it is. I couldn't find it in my field guide:



2. This plant spit at you when you messed with it. Spores or seeds flew at you if you disturbed the plant. And they hit hard.

3. I caught a few spores or seeds in the face the first time I bothered the plant.

4. The seeds/spores were sticky. One stuck to my forehead.

5. They also left residue on my glasses.

6. I thought this was a great species self-preservation method. The plant doesn't really care if it lives, but its offspring have a chance to actually leave the area and make a better life.

7. My husband is always on the offensive against weeds.

8. He has set up a sprayer he uses on the tractor. It's on a cart and he rides around spraying the fence lines and anything else he considers a weed.

9. He always sprays around the timbers we have setting off my rose bed in the front yard.



10. Those roses stay very sickly and I keep telling him it's his weed killer.

11. After I left home last Saturday so he could mow, unbenownst to me, he got out his sprayer.

12. He sprayed around the perimeter of our very small garden.

13. We had just planted many tender and young plants. He didn't realize the overspray was getting on them. They are all dead or in the throes of dying.

The weeds are thriving.

I am still not an official Thursday Thirteen participant, but you can learn more about it here. My other Thursday Thirteens are here. One day I will figure out how to play properly.

Earth Day

I chose the above image for Earth Day because I think is symbolizes many things: the heavens, the earth, mankind (the balloon). Basically, this is the universe, isn't it?

For this celebration of the planet, I thought I might recount the "green" things I do, but really I don't believe I do that much.

Here is what I do. I:

combine trips in my car so I don't waste gas running back and forth for single items.

drive a car that gets about 28 mpg which I don't think is good but it is certainly better than my husband's pick up truck.

use a deodorant stone, which I think saves resources because it lasts a long time (no need for plastic for more!).

recycle paper, plastic, tin.

have a little compost pile and a small garden.

use those new CFL light bulbs in most of my lights and turn off the lights when I'm not in a room.

don't buy a lot of "sitty around" items because they create clutter, not to mention the resources it takes to make them.

take clothes to Goodwill or a similar place. If they're not good enough for that, I turn them into rags.

take timed showers to preserve water.

buy organic and/or locally grown when I can.

Mostly I try to love the world around me with all my heart and soul, even the parts of it I don't care for. I try to look at life with the eyes of a child.

Some days I fail miserably at it, but I think it's worthwhile to attempt it every once in a while.

Have a good Earth Day. Be kind to her. She's the only one we have.

Full Circle

Saturday dawned beautiful, and by 8:30 a.m. husband and I were in the yard. We weeded. We weeded more. We raked up leaves left over from last year. We put down mulch.

We planted flowers. We planted tomatoes, peppers and various other things. It really is a bit early for some of those but we went forth anyhow.

I also trimmed my roses and sprayed them.

By noon I was whupped. I'd been stooped over and on my knees for a very long time. Husband decided he had to mow the yard, which meant I couldn't be outside anymore because of my allergies.

So I went to visit the great aunt. She was asleep when I arrived at the assisted living center, and I gently shook her awake. We chatted some but she usually is not overly talkative when I go in and wake her.

It was quite warm there and I suppose because of my labors earlier, I was rather tired. I actually fell asleep!

My great aunt did not notice.

She fell asleep too. I woke her again to take my leave.

Visiting my great aunt, who is 88 years old, always makes me think about my mortality. I want to ask her how she feels about being old and facing death but I never do.

I did ask her what she thought about during the day. "I sleep," she said, implying that she doesn't think about anything. "But in my dreams, I rake leaves and put down mulch. I plant the garden and I cut my irises."

Life comes at you full circle sometimes. Go live it!

Six Words

Colleen at Loose Leaf Notes tagged me for a meme to write a six word memoir.

I had to give this some thought. Any one who has read my work knows I can be wordy at times. I have it down to an art. Six words seemed nigh impossible.

After turning it around in my brain, I likened this exercise to writing my epitaph for my tombstone.

I finally came up with this:

Uses words to better the world.

Explaining it takes away the point, I suppose, but explain I shall do anyway.

When I write for the newspaper I see it as an educational endeavor, mostly. I hope that readers take away *something* from what I write. Maybe it's knowledge about the local government's shenanigans. Maybe folks take away a chuckle or a smile from a column. Maybe someone has an idea so far removed from what I might think about that I would be surprised.

Maybe what I write will be moving and/or informative enough to spur someone to action, if that action is only a letter to the editor. When that happens, I feel honored to have been able to have helped.

Sometimes I am successful. Sometimes there are letters about the things of which I write. Occasionally the letters are critical of me, as if I, the messenger, in someway did something wrong by making note of an event. (Those can be hard.)

In January I learned from a non-profit that an article I wrote had a good benefit. They attributed to my work the sum of $17,000 in donations for their fuel assistance program. I had written an article about their low funds and how many people couldn't afford the higher cost of oil during the winter.

It made my heart swell with joy to learn that I had been so honored - honored to be allowed to write something that touched so many. I actually came home and cried about it.

This is what I always hope to do. I hope to make a difference. And that's what those six words mean.

I tag Becky at Peevish Pen, my friend at Roanoke RnR and Jeff, who hasn't been writing enough lately though I understand why, for this meme, along with anyone else who cares to take it on.

And multiple thanks to Colleen for giving me something to think about today!

Men!

So Thursday night my husband comes home around 5:45 p.m.

He is covered with dirt and smells like motor oil (he says it is hydraulic fluid). His boots are caked. He has been working on a septic tank at one place and then messing with tractors down at the shed prior to deciding it was time to eat.

The clothes come off in the garage and go straight to the washing machine.

He goes straight to the shower and I put dinner on the table.

He eats and watches the news. At 6:30 p.m., just 45 minutes after he'd come in, he says he is going to the garage "for a minute."

The garage is right next to the kitchen and is part of the house.

I clean up the dishes and note he is outside. Then I see he is cleaning his motorcycle.

Then he starts doing something with the weed eater. Not actually using it, just fiddling with it.

Two hours later, he comes back inside. He smells like motor oil and has dirt streaked down his leg and on his white T-shirt.

The clothes come off and he goes straight to the shower. Again. For the second time.

He attracts dirt like PigPen.

Spring

Thursday Thirteen: Eclectic

1. Yesterday was another good day, with an afternoon spent taking photos and being myself.

2. Any day when I can be myself is a good day.

3. I should be myself everyday but I'm not sure I am.

4. Some days I think I am somebody else, but never anybody famous or anything. Just a little... not me.

5. However, I am not Catwoman, although according to this fun little test I should be. This came from Sweetfluttersbys3 website.

6. I think it said I was Catwoman was because I said I would be dressed in leather.

7. I have no idea what a sweetfluttersbys is. Maybe a cookie?

7. We need rain again. I am still taking timed showers and I will until we get at least 24 inches over and above normal.

8. I think I will be waiting a long time for an untimed shower.

9. I shot the photo below with my Canon camera but I did not take the picture. Can you guess what I mean?


10. Two weekends ago I attended the Body, Mind Soul event at the Salem Civic Center.

11. I never wrote about it until now because I couldn't decide what I thought of it. It cost $8.

12. A lot of alternative healing people were there and I took many business cards for future reference. My friend and I had reflexology on our feet. I can't say it did much for me.

13. I still don't know what I think about the event, which is why I'm not writing any more.

What the Camera Catches

I didn't see the worm until I uploaded the photos.

Just My Luck

It's just like me to love kissing you
when our lips meeting pays nothing
except delight and shivers.

It's just like me to think a walk
in the meadow by the brook
is worth more than money.

It's just my luck to work with words,
finding their lure seductive
though nouns do not pay the bills.

Weekend Culture

Saturday night my husband and I attended a celebration for the 20th anniversary of the Blue Ridge Library.

The Hall Trio performed. These young people were amazing.




All of the players were quite good. I was taken with the young lady playing the harp. That is one instrument I have never attempted. She played it extremely well and I enjoyed watching her face. I could tell when she hit a particularly hard passage just perfect - her eyes lit up.

An article about this group is here (I didn't write it).

Sunday my husband and I went to a play at Hollins. Called Caroline, or Change, by Tony Kushner, this work spoke about race relations and poverty.



My husband fell asleep during the first act, which was not a reflection on the play but on him. He works all the time.

The actress playing the lead role was extremely good, as was the young man playing Noah. Noah was an 8-year-old who lost his mom; he adored Caroline. But then came the $20 problem....

During the second act, something caught my eye and I watched somewhat amazed as a very large paint flake wafted down from the ceiling. At first I thought it was a bat. It landed about four rows in front of me in a lady's hair.

I thought I was the only one who saw it until my husband leaned over and whispered, "They're really bringing down the house."

An Excellent Day

Thursday was a most excellent day.

The day was warm and the air clear. The recent rains had everything looking clean and pristine.

The tree blossoms were exquisite; they left my mouth hanging open in awe at the simple beauty of it all. The grass grew emerald green and the mountains had a tint of pink and green as the redbuds began to bloom and the oaks and elms begin to leaf out.

This wonderful day started out with a trip to the courthouse, where I did a little research (a favorite past time) and talked with friends who work there. Then I met briefly with my editor, who produced a box that someone had mailed to me.

A small present from a fan of my work, it was. I was pleasantly surprised.

I returned home for lunch, where my husband and I ate and had delightful conversation about the farm and the cattle.

Then I hopped back in the car. En route, I stopped in people's driveways and spoke with ladies I did not know as I asked if I could take pictures of their flowers and trees. They were enjoying the day, too, sitting back on their heels with their gloved hands dirty from weeding and planting.

Not a one turned me away.

I made my way to an interview, where the people I spoke with for my article were absolutely sweet and kind and wonderful to talk with.

The sky was a perfect backdrop for photos and I saw pictures everywhere I looked. It was as if my vision had cleared after being foggy for a long time.

Since this was the first day I'd been out and about for any length of time since I took ill in early March, I'm not so sure that analogy isn't spot on.

I returned home delightfully worn and happily tired by my excursion.

It really was an excellent day.

Play Ball!

Spring, of course, means baseball. While I personally am not a big fan of the game, the nephew (left, in the red) is shortstop for my high school alma mater.

Tuesday was the first home game Husband and I had been able to attend. The sun came and went. While it shone the air was warm, but when the clouds covered the sky the wind kicked up and it was crisp indeed. I ended up sitting in the car part of the time. Fortunately we had parked so I could see through the windshield, as I can't stand to have the wind in my ears.

The Cavaliers lost to Hidden Valley, but it was a joy to see my nephew play. He had surgery on his rib bone in January and I feared it would keep him from sports. But many hours of therapy later, he seems to be back in form.

He made at least five good plays from shortstop, including this catch. Although to be sure I am not sure what the result was.

Thursday Thirteen

1. This story on AOL states that America's favorite book is the Bible. The Reuters version of it is here.

2. Men like Lord of the Rings and women like Gone with the Wind, the story says.

3. It doesn't say if people actually read these books (including the Bible). All three of those books are not the easiest reading.

4. According to this old Washington Post article, only 45 percent of Americans read anything in 1999.

5. This up-to-date Reuters article says that one third of Americans read more than 10 books a year.

6. That means about 66 percent of Americans read less than 10 books a year.

7. This article says that women read more than men and they like mysteries, romances and religious books.

8. Here is a list of books banned somewhere by somebody in the United States. J. K. Rowling has four books on the list. Not everyone loves Harry Potter.

9. Wikipedia also has a banned book list, but it includes bannings in other countries as well as the U.S. It's a long list.

10. This website is a comprehensive look at censorship.

11. The ALA has a banned books week every year (but it is not this week). They have information about banned books at this site too.

12. I have read a number of the banned books listed on these websites. I also have enough sense to not read something that I find offensive. Personally I think if someone finds a book offensive they should just not read it, and if the person is a student (or a parent) then he or she should ask for a different book.

13. If so many people do not read, and if the top three books cited are books that can be difficult to read even for people who read a lot, then do you think these top three books - including the Bible - are really being read?


I am still not an official Thursday Thirteen participant, but you can learn more about it here. My other Thursday Thirteens are here. One day I will figure out how to play properly.

A Question of Race

Race relations are much in the news these days, thanks to the presidential run of Barack Obama.

I grew up and have spent most of my life in the confines of a generally white area. My county is about 94 percent white. Most of the more rural communities surrounding the city are about the same, or less. The city is about two-thirds white.

My interactions with people of color (or black people, I honestly don't know what to call anyone these days) were few. My family was like most in those times - racist and bigoted. You know the kind - black folks eat watermelon and fried chicken and have lots of babies so they can draw welfare. It's an unfortunate attitude that I fear continues to this day.

I started school in 1968. Virginia as late as 1964 was struggling with race relations in public schools. According to this Wikipedia article, many counties tried to get around the federal laws by creating private schools and academies. Segregation existed then. I think it still does, covertly.

As it is with many things, my thoughts and feelings about race have been formed from my own experiences, some of which I am going to share.

My learning career began with kindergarten at East Salem, for at that time this is where we lived. Salem had only a year before become a city.

I think I was in a summer school type of situation for kindergarten, but I am not certain. In any event, I rode a bus from elementary school to my grandmother's house every day.

One day the bus driver said she had to pick up kids at the vocational school across the street. Normally the bus was filled with white students under the age of 12 or so.

The students she picked up were black male teenagers. I do not know if these were the first black persons I had seen up close, but these fellows scared all of us.

They snarled and got down in our faces, hissed at us and left us petrified. They took our notebooks from our hands and tossed them in the aisle. They were loud and boisterous and went out of their way to make us scream. Young girls, myself included, sat frozen in terror, holding hands, tears streaming down our faces. I can still hear the bus driver yelling, "Ya'll sit down back there, stop scaring them kids," as she continued along the route.

Stop after stop, little boys and girls fled the bus in terror and ran sobbing into their mother's arms. I did the same; I remember fleeing as quickly as my little legs would carry me, running the half-block to my grandmother's front porch. I flung myself into her bosom and cried as I told her what had happened.

I remember my uncle, a teenager himself, cursing because these youth had terrorized me. Had he been there, he proclaimed, he'd have stopped it.

Doubtless the phone at the school rang a lot the next morning and the principal and other officials received angry visits from parents, although I do not recall what happened in my own family.

Nothing like that ever occurred again in the time I remained at that school. By the second grade I was in a rural county in a new school system, with different incidents about to take place in my education on race.

Over the years I have thought of this incident often. I have had nightmares about it. But generally I recall it as an incident involving young teenagers who were having fun at the expense of a bunch of little kids. I do not to see it as an incident of race, mind you, of black youth scaring white youth, even though the truth of it is they were black and the rest of us were white.

I see it as young teenagers taking advantage of a bunch of little kids. But I feel sure that in five-year-old wisdom, at that time I was as scared of these young men because they were black as I was because they were working hard to scare us.

Thankfully this episode, while creating a lasting impression, did not make me fearful of either black people or teenagers.

Next up: Part II (it's the entry below this one).

A Question of Race, Part 2

Part 1 is here.

Prejudice in the late 1960s and early 1970s manifested itself in many ways. I remember hearing bad jokes, sick stories, and caricatures that turned my stomach.

Somehow I rejected many of these attitudes, even though they were dominate. Many people I knew had no problem with attitudes about the "colored" folks. My grandmother up until she died last year made off-the-cuff remarks about her caretakers, as in, "she's a really nice colored girl, them folks do good at changing the sheets." She did not mean harm; it was way she was raised.

Attitudes are difficult to change.

In 1971 I was in the third grade at my rural elementary school.

One day I was asked if there were any black teachers at my school.

"No," I said, and returned to whatever I was doing, probably reading a book.

My third grade teacher was Mrs. Fairfax. She was a wonderful lady and I loved her with all the adoration a nine-year-old girl could muster for her teacher. She expected and received the best from me. I was her best student but she did not have favorites. She simply acknowledged that I made the top grades and moved on, but at the same time I still felt special.

She was unique that way.

She was also black. I had forgotten!

A similar event happened when I was 17. I had my driver's license and I wanted guitar lessons. I found a teacher a one of the city's music shops at one of the malls.
He was a wonderful teacher, very patient and very much ready to help me improve my performance and technique.

I took lessons from him for about a year. One day someone who had met him approached me and asked me why I had never mentioned the fact that my guitar teacher was a black man.

"It never occurred to me that it was a problem," I said.

I guess the moral of these musings is that upbringing and environment can be overcome. I like to think that I am open minded and maybe a little less prejudiced than some.

However, I am sure that I have prejudice and bigotries because I do not believe that people can be free of such things. I think everyone has them.

Prejudice and bigotries manifest themselves in many ways. I guarantee there are a number of white men (and women) watching the Democratic primaries in horror. It must be the stuff of their nightmares as they watch a woman and a black man duke it out for the presidential nomination.

I remember when Doug Wilder was nominated governor of Virginia. Several people I knew thought this would be the end of life as we knew it for this state. But that didn't happen. Wilder was a pretty good governor as governors go.

I feel sure that if Barack Obama ends up as president, life will continue on. If Hillary Clinton ends up as president, life will continue on. I suppose it will even continue on if John McCain ends up as president. How it continues on is another question entirely, but it is not a question that I think is answered by pointing at race and gender.

Maybe one day those traits won't matter. Maybe we'll all be able to be see only people, you and you and me and all of the rest, as just folks. Just human beings trying to get along.

**Editors note**

Upon reflection, I changed several of the above paragraphs of this entry to eliminate some things that I thought may embarrass someone else and to clarify a few points at the end. The meaning is still the same, I think.

**End Editors note**

What is This?

Can you guess what this is and what it was used for?

Hail Forsythia!

Books: The Peacock Emporium

The Peacock Emporium
By JoJo Moyes
Copyright 2004
435 pages

This book took me longer to read than most, partly because I've been sick and I tend not to read much when I'm ill, but also because this thing left me scratching my head a lot and I put it down and picked it back up several times.

If you suffer through the first 70 pages, you'll find the story. The initial pages have their place but the author would have been better served to have started the book at "Part Two" and added those other pages as flashbacks or something.

The book would have benefited highly from a good editor; there were enough typos or punctuation problems for me to comment on it. I am generally forgiving but if I am looking as much for misplaced or lacking commas as I am the content, there's a problem.

The author writes very long sentences that left me breathless, not to mention searching for the subject noun. Again, a little editing would have made this more readable.

That's what wrong with the book. What's right is the character of Suzanne, once you finally get to her. She's the meat of this big sandwich and a very complex young woman she is. She is unhappy and trying to find herself. Her journey is intriguing and I liked that part of the story when I wasn't being aggravated by the rest of the book.

This is from the book jacket:

Thirty-five years on, Suzanna Peacock finds refuge from her mother's shameful legacy in her shop, the Peacock Emporium. Within its magical walls she discovers not just friendship, and an escape from her troubled marriage, but the first real passion of her life.

If the book had stuck to that, I'd have given it at least 3.5 stars.

As it stands, though, I can just barely give it 2 stars.

The Internet and Society

A friend and I were having an email discussion about the Internet and how, unless you're very lucky, you end up having to deal with nameless and faceless souls who just want to cause harm.

The Internet has been likened to the wild west, a lawless place where people can say and do what they like. If they want to flame you, they do, if they want to call you names, they do, if they want to make you look ridiculous, they do.

Civility can be found but it doesn't seem mainstream. I feel fortunate to have run across some very nice people online, but I stay away from newsgroups and from discussion sites where the comments get unruly. I see commentaries at the ends of articles where people are just horrible with their language, insulting and vulgar. I don't need to see more to know what is out there.

Unfortunately, the media has found the Internet a good place to do their lazy work. Instead of standing on street corners to find out what people think, they check a newsgroup from the safety of their desk. Instead of digging through books for old data, they use whatever they dredge up online and that's all you get. It may be a time-saver but I don't know that it actually adds much to the conversation.

I do not deal well with confrontation, and when I get flamed, I just leave. It's not worth the angst and frankly the opinions of those kinds of mean people, who 90 percent of the time don't know what they're talking about anyway, aren't worth the time.

Anyway, I thought my friend had some interesting insight into this line of thinking about the Internet, and I wanted to share it. I've reworked it a little:

Abusing the Internet comes about when kids do their homework on line. Politicians and journalists skim everything from what is
already out there. There's nothing original about it.

It's really very sad and frustrating. It indicates a decaying society.

Our culture crested sometime in the1960s, with the civil rights movement and the various radical movements and the real consolidation of scientific understandings of our universe etc.

But we can't live like that. Not as a species. Most people are scared and crave simplistic, emotional, immediate surroundings. The
womb. The cave. So all this dead-weight is pulling back on us, is pulling us in. Religion is rising again, with people preferring the
certainties of dogma to the challenges of rational thought. Even scientists have decided, after 50 years of scanning the universe for signs of life (and we know now that radio waves, which we are scanning for, decay within a few light years actually) that in fact we are unique, that the universe is
engineered so that in just one place in all its immensity, life shall be possible, and we shall be its summit. Just one step to declaring God did it all, after all - the superstitious easy answer spreads.

And while people soak up new technology, it is for just one thing - to hive themselves off into warm, dark, noisy little cyber-caves where all they do is chant empty mantras together or engage in vicious hate-fests against one
another or whatever.

The creativity has gone. We aren't looking out any longer - we're just looking inwards, at ourselves, all the time. And pretty soon
there will be terrible food and energy crises and the whole infrastructure we depend
on will decay as well.

What do you think? Has society reached its pinnacle? Is the Internet a symptom of the downward spiral? Has the world gone mad?

Thursday Thirteen

1. My husband says he never dreams. I don't believe him, because he sometimes mutters in his sleep.

2. However, not once has he woke up and said, "I dreamed last night that...." Not in 24 years of sleeping together has he ever told me a dream. I think that is sad.

3. I dream every night. In color.

4. Tuesday night I dreamed the federal government hauled me off from the library. I thought it was because I was topless.

5. They took me to a room where my husband had also been "disappeared" to. At least we were together.

6. A man who looked a lot like the bearded Al Gore kept grilling us to tell the truth, but he never said about what.

7. Then he took my pillow and cut in half. Maggots fell out of the middle of it.

8. "You are part of the cult!" the man screamed.

9. As a child I had a persistent dream of a black-hooded man who chased me through the garden. I hid behind the scarecrow. He always found me.

10. My grandmother dreamed that Jesus came to her and took her wedding ring from her finger. "You won't be needing this anymore," he told her. My grandfather died three days later.

11. When I was very small, I would wake in the middle of the night with the certainty that a woman sat on the end of my bed. My mother always said I was dreaming when she came in after I screamed.

12. Those particular screams and dreams stopped when we moved to another house.

13. I have always been pretty sure that woman wasn't a dream. She was a ghost.


I am not an official Thursday Thirteen participant, but I understand you can learn more about it here. This is my 46th Thursday Thirteen, so I suppose I should someday figure out how to play properly.

Newspapers in a Death Grip

The latest edition of the New Yorker offers an intriguing article, "Out of Print" by Eric Alterman, about the end of newspapers.

The initial paragraphs are an interesting history of newspapers in the U.S. Being a Virginian, I always thought this state had the first newspaper, the Virginia Gazette, but apparently Massachusetts beat the us to it by about 34 years.

The article in The New Yorker gives the Huffington Post credit for taking information digital, although this has been occurring in varying stages for a long time.

The article points out that without traditional media, there would be nothing for websites like HuffPo and similar sites to sound off about. This is the most important point of the entire article.

The author states it thusly:

... Huffington fails to address the parasitical relationship that virtually all Internet news sites and blog commentators enjoy with newspapers. (emphasis mine)

According to this very long story, HuffPo has created a community; hence, the hits from unique users. That means popularity and advertising revenue.

Everybody has something to say, it seems, and everyone wants the opportunity to say it.

Never mind that for the most part the opinions rattled off are worthless. Occasionally there is a gem among the inane, but it's infrequent at best. Essentially everyone is talking at once and no one is listening.

I have a naive view of newspapers in that I believe in the Fourth Estate (interestingly, I could not find a good definition online for what this means).

To me the Fourth Estate means an organization that watches out for the Greater Good. It sides with no one and nothing except Truth. It doesn't decry torture on one hand and okay it on the other simply because the government says water boarding is legal, for example.

I believe newspapers should hold views of the common man. If newspapers are political, they should only be so in a push for equality and in defense of the common man. If the views of the common man are completely opposite, as it seems these days, then maybe it's time for newspapers to give up this charade of neutrality and become a blue paper or a red paper and move on.

Newspapers have gotten away from Truth, however one defines that. They are now only about advertising dollars. That comes first. The news is secondary, something to fill the pages.

I have watched with something akin to horror as publishers have made decisions that have ultimately ruined their product. They've cut news staff, changed layouts and focus, and generally created the situation that exists now. In essence, newspaper owners have destroyed their own reason for being.

I agree entirely with this statement:

The columnist Molly Ivins complained, shortly before her death, that the newspaper companies’ solution to their problem was to make “our product smaller and less helpful and less interesting.” That may help explain why the dwindling number of Americans who buy and read a daily paper are spending less time with it; the average is down to less than fifteen hours a month.

By cutting staff, publishers have mutilated the sense of community that HuffPo professes to have found and taken advantage of. How can a community feel that the newspaper is a part of it if there is no presence?

If reporters do not attend events, from pancake breakfasts to government meetings, the relevancy of the newspaper ends. The community at large does not know the journalists and reporters and has no connection. They have no sense of ownership and participation in the news and thus no feeling that their needs and desires are reflected in the pages.

It is the knowledge of communities, whether that community is as small as a neighborhood or as large as a state - or these United States - that is missing. It takes a village to write a newspaper, frankly. One or two people can't do it all.

They miss far too much.

I am of the opinion that the Internet is not killing newspapers. Newspapers survived television.

Their demise began in the 1980s. Was it a result of deregulation, with the news now in in the hands of a few - a few whose motive is profit, not Truth?

This is not a problem of revenue or advertising. It is a political decision to make newspapers irrelevant. This is because newspaper stories, unlike the soundbites of TV, actually have depth. TV says such and such happened - a good, well-researched newspaper story tells you why it happened. TV does not do that particularly well.

When I read a newspaper, it is because I want to know the whys of an event. Or why a person is who he or she is. Only a well-written story can give me that information in a concise, if sometimes lengthy, method of communication. It would take hours of news footage to tell the same story.

The people in power - whoever that may be - do not want the whys of a story to be known and well understood.

This is why stories about the countdown to the battle of Iraq, for example, seldom touched on the past (which could have indicted the nation for its role in aiding and abetting the sovereign nation we were conquering and which never questioned the government rhetoric). This was a political decision in the newsroom. It had little to do with advertising.

I believe print edition of newspapers have a place. If ultimately they do not, then an electronic version of a newspaper, one in which journalists are paid to report real news and features and to be a part of the community, is a necessity.

Whether that online newspaper becomes a place of news or a place of inane chatter is in part up to the public and very much in the hands of the publisher.

Without good, dedicated staff and support of a publisher who wants to put out a good product that is again the voice of the common man, newspapers will indeed fail.

And then all we'll have left are a million opinions, and not an ounce of Truth.

Farewell and Amen

Yesterday I spent quite a bit of time updating my links. I finally was able to reach my widgets in my Blogger layout.
I knew that some of my links were bad, because I had visited a couple of blogs and found the owners had either made them private or deleted them.

It always makes me sad when a relationship in which I've invested some time ends. Blogs in particular create an intimate relationship between reader and writer. The person is not exactly a friend, but neither is he or she an unknown entity.

A couple of these blogs I had read for several years, and I will keenly feel their absence.

Why do people, words, books, etc. come into our lives? Does the universe (or God) say, "You can learn from this person." Or perhaps this person can learn from you? And when the learning is over, the person vanishes? Is that how it works?

I have been through what seems like a very large number of relationships. If I were to recount them one by one, you'd think me a very difficult person indeed if I couldn't keep all of these people in my life. But I suspect many people have the same tale.

Many of these folks were coworkers. Why is it that when someone changes jobs, the friendship ends? I used to work in the legal field and even if I stayed in the same career but went to a different office, the old coworkers soon stopped calling or responding to my calls. Sometimes it happened within a matter of days, not weeks. Once it even happened within the same firm, and just because I moved down the hall!

Suddenly that bond isn't there anymore. Nobody does anything wrong, but Time steps in and Change takes over. And just like that, relationships end.

I have some relationships that have lasted quite a long time. My husband has stuck with me for going on 25 years - 26 if you count the year we dated. He should get a medal!

I am in touch with few friends from school, I'm sad to say, but there are one or two whom I see infrequently. Some I even consider good friends, even if all we do is exchange Christmas cards. I consider myself fortunate to still do that.

A former coworker, L., has been my friend for 25 years. There are long periods of time where we don't see each other or speak much, but then, like magic, we're having lunch and it is as if we still worked in the same office.

My closest girlfriend, B., has been listening to me whine for almost 10 years now. Ours is definitely an adult relationship, based on the persons we are now, not who we were so long ago. I kind of like that lack of history.

I even have longevity in online relationships. I have corresponded with C.J. for close to 15 years now. We met on AOL and have stayed in touch all this time. She is like a distant younger sister. My other friend, I., has been a near-daily pen pal for seven years. And I've been on a list with the same bunch of women for going on nigh seven years, too. And there are others I've know and still hear from occasionally that I've been writing to since 1995.

I also have worked off and on with one of my editors for about 23 years, and nearly 10 with another.*

I think those are very long relationships indeed and I treasure them. I wish I could keep all my friends close by, and never have them walk out of my life.

But alas, they turn to "private" and all I can do is watch them go.

*Added later

Books: The Memory Keeper's Daughter

The Memory Keeper's Daughter
By Kim Edwards
Copyright 2005
401 pages

Lifetime will have a movie made from this book on April 12.

Dr. Henry in 1964 must deliver his own children, thanks to a snowstorm. One of the twins has Downs syndrome. He hands the imperfect child to his nurse and tells her to take it to an institutional home. He does not tell his wife the child lives.

The nurse chooses to keep the child and raise her herself. She moves away.

The book follows the lives of these two families. Dr. Henry's family is forever marred by his decision and his secret, which he takes to the grave with him.

The nurse's life is enriched beyond her wildest dreams.

In the end, the two families meet. The books ends with a great promise of hope.

This my book club's pick for March. Thanks to my bronchial ailment, I missed the meeting last Tuesday, much to my dismay. I am sure the discussion was great.

I enjoyed this work, although it was difficult and sad in places. Dr. Henry chose to play God and it turned out to be a mantle he could not wear. His decision had many consequences.

If I remember the movie is on, I will watch it, but I am not very good about keeping up with TV.

4 stars

For Writers

This website is pitting various writing blogs against one another in a basketball style seed. Check it out if only to find the links to some good blogs about writing and freelancing.

Swayze and my mom

My heart ached when I read the news a few weeks ago that actor Patrick Swayze of Dirty Dancing fame had pancreatic cancer.

This was not because I am an ardent fan (although I like that movie), but because pancreatic cancer is the disease that eight years ago killed my mother.

My mother loved Dirty Dancing. She loved to dance and she loved music – what better movie, eh? Once we were shopping together, and she asked me to go wait for her in a chair in the corner while she tried on clothes. “Nobody puts Baby in the corner!” I huffed, giving Swayze’s line. Mom burst out laughing, as did I.

Cancer in any form is not pretty, but pancreatic cancer is a particularly nasty bugger.

Each year about 30,000 Americans are given a pancreatic cancer diagnosis. Most of these people will be dead within the year. Pancreatic cancer is the fourth leading cause of cancer death in this country.

In Spring 1999, my mother returned from Paris. It was her first trip abroad. She was pale and wan and complaining of stomach problems. She had been in a foreign country. We thought it was the water.

When June came around, my mother attended a small party at my home. She complained of her stomach hurting still. I remember watching her standing by the table, her fist in her gut.

I asked her, of course, if she had been to the doctor. She had. Several times.

A few weeks later, Mom told me she still wasn’t feeling well. I insisted she go back to the doctor. She called me from his office and told me she was being admitted to the hospital that Friday.

She had jaundice.

The following Monday, doctors wheeled my mother off for exploratory surgery. Something was blocking her bile duct. My aunt, who is a nurse, waited with me.

Mom returned to the room, still unconscious. The doctor took us aside. “Pancreatic cancer,” he said.

That was it. No statistics, no hope, no offer of help.

My aunt knew right away that this was a death knell. She explained the diagnosis and statistics.

I was in shock.

My mother’s first words upon awakening were, “Is it cancer?” I burst into tears and fled from the room, leaving my aunt to tell her.

It was the hardest day of my life up to that time.

The choices open were radiation and chemotherapy and little hope. The most radical procedure was a surgery called a Whipple, which entailed removal of the pancreas and surrounding organs, including part of the stomach. My mother chose this operation and opted to have it performed at the University of Virginia.

The surgery prolonged her life. She actually lived just a little beyond a year of the diagnosis. But it was a difficult time, because the surgery left her weak. It also damaged her stomach and she ended up with tube feeding for the rest of her short life.

About this time of year in 2000, I slipped away from work to visit my mother, as I frequently did. Most days I walked in and the house was still as a tomb. She said television bothered her and the music she loved had become noise that she no longer cared to hear. But on this day I walked in to find the radio on. My mother was in the back part of the house. She didn’t know I was there.

“Now I’ve had the time of my life, and I’ve searched through every open door…,” she sang, her alto chiming in on this Dirty Dancing song.

I was grateful she was having a good day. And I was saddened because by this time I knew that the cancer had spread and chemo and radiation wasn’t working. She wasn’t going to be with us much longer.

She died in August at the age of 56. That was the last song I heard her sing.

Give generously when cancer foundations come calling. You just never know where – or who – this disease will strike next.

**This was originally printed on March 26, 2008, in The Fincastle Herald under my column/byline. It didn't have the links.**