Memories of Miss Eudora

Having lived near the capital city of Jackson, Mississippi, I had the privilege of enountering Miss Eudora Welty on several occasions: sitting behind her at local plays; spotting her at a muffler shop patiently waiting for a ride; dining near her table in a local restaurant; browsing books in a popular bookstore; or shopping for groceries at then-famous Jitney 14, to name a few. Stories passed around in readers' circles of where they had encountered this author at the most unexpected moments. She led her life as any other Jacksonian--with no pretensions.

There had always been an unwritten rule among book lovers that one didn't call Miss Eudora on the telephone or stop her on the street to engage her in conversation, unless you were a good friend. A brief greeting to this lovely person was as far as anyone dared.

Once, I was searching in a new bookstore for a copy of her biography to gift my dad. The store was gaining a reputation for stocking Mississippi authors (of which there are many). As I thumbed through several editions, I heard her familiar deep, Southern drawl.

Turning my head in that direction to confirm my suspicions, I saw her standing several feet away. How to speak to her and not feel flustered? I picked my selection, all the while trying to think up something appropriate. I proceeded to the cashier, arriving at the same time as she. Flustered to think she would consider this move planned, my speech faltered as I said to her, "Wha-what a nice surprise to see you here. I'm giving my dad a copy of One Writer's Beginnings for his birthday." She smiled, a brief moment passed, and then she said, "Well, would you like for me to autograph it for your father?" She did.

As a teacher of senior English during the mid 70's, I discovered the students had never read any of the classics, so their book reports centered on authors I knew were important to prepare them for college English. The school library had very few copies of the books I required, so off to the second-hand bookstores in several towns. Also with help from friends and a raid of my personal collection, there were enough paperbacks to pass around.

During that year Miss Eudora was presented an award from the French Embassy at our capitol building on a schoolday. Students from the three classes loaded into cars and headed for the ceremony. She appeared before the crowd, a tiny figure, while the ambassador reminded us the reason this author was so popular in France: her description of people and places in a rural setting appeared familiar to that of the French countryside. French readers loved her stories. The students discovered this famous-under-their-noses author quiet and unassuming, not at all fitting the looking-like-an-author mold they had created in their minds.

The next year the Jackson library expanded into a new building and was named the Eudora Welty Library. A grand presentation and reception was held. The next year's students were invited to this event. Introduced by another author and a dear friend, Jim Lehrer, the lady of the hour, to the students' surprise, was surrounded by dignitaries from Washington, New York, and Europe. Still, the fact that they were in dignified company failed to capture their interest.

Miss Eudora died in 2001 at the age of 92. She had won the Pulitzer Prize in 1973. I hope a few of my students, now adults leading their own lives, stopped for a moment to remember her. Maybe by then they even had read some of her stories.

A few years later when our daughter graduated from Leslie College, Cambridge, MA, the family celebrated the event by attending. The next evening we went to a local club to hear a band popular with our kids. As usual, the young people had to present their identification at the door. When I got to the front of the line, I blithely asked, "Do I need to show you mine?" hoping he'd think I was younger than I looked. A joke, really. But not to our kids. Mom had outdone herself in embarrassing them.

Several hours later my husband and I left the group and headed towards the door. The ID checker to whom I'd spoken upon entering, walked up to us and said, "Did I hear from your voice that you're from the South?" We said yes, and he began peppering us with questions about his two favorite authors, William Faulkner and Eudora Welty. "Well," I reminded him, "I can tell you a bit about Faulkner, and a whole lot about Welty." For the next two freezing hours or so outside the club I related everything I ever knew about both of them, his mind cataloging the facts. He told us he had majored in literature in college, had traveled around the world, but had never visited the towns where these famous authors lived.

His next question was, "Now, is Mississippi near Texas?" I smirked and said, sort of and gave him the general locations of the home towns, Oxford and Jackson. Finally, the February cold of this eastern city became unbearable to remain outside, and we bade goodby to our avid listener. His parting words were "I'm going to Oxford and Jackson on my next vacation." I felt warmed that I had entertained the mind of a stranger with my Welty/Faulkner knowledge.

Miss Eudora left her home and its furnishings to the state of Mississippi in 1986 while she was still living there. This weekend for two days visitors will be able to see this National Historic Landmark where her parents instilled in her a life-long interest in reading. It is a literary house, not a museum, fully furnished just as Miss Eudora left it. I'm going to be first in line Saturday morning.

Morning Quiet

Mornings are my favorite time of the day. I like to wander about the house silently, or grab my keys for a drive into Madison. Few cars pass me. I glide along the strip malls whose storefronts are dark,lonely. No signs outdoors glittering, beckoning. I take the backroads where few houses stand and marvel at the sun as it streaks through the trees with its yellow fingers caressing the leaves.

Where most people enjoy the night lights of favorite cities of their travels, I like the mornings after. I remember seeing the twinkling night lights of Venice, New Orleans, Paris, Madrid, whose carnivals of music, laughter, and foreign tongues stir the pot of nightlife and continue into the early morning until revelers stumble to their beds.

In these same cities I wander the streets near the hotel and, with the exception of water gushing from hoses, brooms swish-swishing, and silverware clanking inside open doors, I am alone. These scenes lay bare the awakening of cities whose inhabitants stagger up for another work day while the late-nighters sleep until noon. Sometimes I encounter an early riser sipping his coffee on an upstairs balcony or leaning inside the downstairs entrance. Unexpectedly, a lone dog follows me, hoping for some bit of food; a parrot in his cage fluffs his feathers in the cool air; a housemaid shakes into the air sheets of a touseled bed. The sounds increase when bikers tinkle their bells, trucks clank open their back doors, and men appearing with loads on their dollies, begin to unload. Morning has begun. One deep breath announces the scents of baked goods and coffee. I sit outside the first open cafe and enjoy breakfast like a native.

Don't Poems Rhyme Anymore?

I've never been one to truly enjoy poetry other than that from children's books and English Lit texts, with their specific rhythms and rhyming words...I'm not one whose parents read poems to me; I read my own,favoring those by Ogden Nash. Reading to my three kids, I had fun pronouncing Dr. Seuss' words and rhymes. Recently sharing her writing with me, my friend DJ is showing me how to appreciate poetry that sings but doesn't rhyme.

At the Jackson, MS, rally for breast cancer held recently, sponsored by the Susan Koman Foundation, DJ received permission to read the following to an enthusiastic and receptive audience. This is dedicated to all women who are having or have had chemotherapy:


One of my most vulnerable moments of my mother's experience with cancer occurred when I went outside to "help" her brush out her hair. My hair-removal efforts were minimal at best, because I really didn't want my mother's hair to come out. Mom, however, brushed quite vigorously--she was on a 'mission'. She wanted her hair to fall outdoors because she didn't want to add hair-clogged drains to my father's concerns that day. She cheerfully told me that she thought the birds could use the extra nesting material. Even after she voiced these positive points, I still struggled. Writing this poem provided needed resolution for me as I moved beyond the world's view of beauty, symbolized below by the gilded mirror, to a fuller appreciation of her spiritual beauty and strength, represented by the looking glass. My mother has asked that I share this poem, "A Reflection on Two Mirrors," with other women going through cancer in hopes that it might be a blessing to them as well. My own prayers go with it.


A REFLECTION OF TWO MIRRORS

A woman's crowning glory, her hair,
Unwillingly relinquished and surrendered,
Drifts and falls gently about her feet:
A necessary casualty of the battle.

But she does not let the loss take her spirit
Down into the depths, for at this very moment
Is the victory as the crowning glory of this world
Yields to a far more glorious crown.

And yet the world's gilded mirror, while resplendent,
In confusion furrows its brow and frowns
Because it cannot understand and
Capture the spirit's radiant countenance.

The looking glass, albeit with body and soul laid bare,
Emerges triumphant through the tempering;
And it alone reveals there is no greater beauty
Than the human spirit tested and shown true.

Spring Surrounds My Yard

Azaleas of all shades of pink have burst into bloom. Although the bush has an early season flower,it heralds that warm weather is here to stay. The azaleas in our yard were planted over 30 years ago and get an occasional trim after blooming. But despite the neglect we give them, they return to please us year after year.



Photinas were planted across our back yard, its leaves turning red on their tips, hence the name "Red Tip Photina." Slow to grow in heighth and breadth, a few years passed before they were providing shade on our yard. Being unfamiliar novice gardners, we were surprised to find one spring tiny bunches of flowerlets with a sweet fragrance. They deserve their own photo.



My dad raised a beautiful Grandfather's Greybeard from seeds. When he presented us with an envelope of six seeds, he expected us to plant them in our yard. We kept them for several years indecisive about waiting for their slow growth. Finally, we decided to buy three small trees to plant. The seeds had dried out and were discarded. Each spring the trees surprise us with light green leaves and tiny fingers of white flowers pushing out from underneath to droop gracefully.

As I drive away from my home and tour the small, bustling city of Madison, I am pleased with the care in which neighbors, citizens, and city officials have worked to make yards and corners of every street and roadway a surprise of myriad colorful blooms. The downtown area has Bradford Pear trees lining it, and spring is a special sight when passing through.

The East has its beautiful fall foliage, the West, its majestic mountains, and the South, its spring parade of flowering beauty. Everyone should see the natural beauty of our country before a burgeoning population destroys it.

A Success Story

Nineteen years ago I was the teacher, he the student. Last night we reversed roles.

He was the chef demonstrating a dinner menu at the local kitchen shop, completely in his element,charming eager adults with his wit and delightful expressions while revealing his secrets of good cooking. Upon being introduced and being asked to tell something of how he came to the Jackson, MS area, he first saluted my husband and me for being the ones supporting him those early years. He's never forgotten the hours we spent completing course assignments, providing lunch money, and being friends to him and his family when they had few. He has taught me more than how to make artichoke dip. He is a constant reminder of our knowing a gracious family who, despite adversity, never lost their smiles, their determination to assimilate into this country without government help.

I met Danny when he enrolled as a tenth grader fresh from Colombia, SA. He spoke no English. I took the opportunity to guide him through the process of acclimating into student life. He spent the first year isolated from friendships, so stayed with me in my classroom mornings before school, activity periods, lunch times, and after school while he waited for a ride home.

However, in three years he gained respect of his fellow classmates with his infectious smile and participation in every activity with the enthusiasm of a third grader. He willingly spent hours after school organizing a dance troupe from our school's Spanish classes. With infinite patience he had football players with oversized feet shuffling and snapping to the rhythms of the Latin music. They and their female partners went on to win first place three years in a row in the performance of Latin American dances. He gave so much of himself to these students that they in turn learned to appreciate his true character. By the twelfth grade he had been accepted.

Danny didn't go to college. He went to work to help his sister Lucy pay for expenses. For over 12 years he worked whatever job in various restaurants to hone his cooking skills. His mother, he insists, is the greatest cook ever.

With $20,000 borrowed, Danny, Lucy and husband formulated plans for their own restaurant with Danny as chef. A few days before opening for fine dining, my husband and I were asked to visit and sample his menu. From that day on he's welcomed us heartily when we've entered his business, always reminding us of his gratitude. He instructs our waiter to give us special attention. When I remarked once how giving he was to bring family members to Mississippi, giving them jobs in the restaurant and helping them economically, he said he'd learned from the best. I blushed.

Last night I proudly watched him mix, stir, and bake a delicious meal. This time he was comfortable among strangers. In his chatter about his life and his philosophy of cooking, he stressed that one can achieve anything if he's willing to work. His audience applauded him and left with admiration for his spirit.

My Dad the Telegrapher

Recently in the local newspaper an article was printed from an interview Sis and I had with a reporter, seeking information about Western Union. The company known for telegraphing messages and money would officially close that facet this year. The article summarized my dad's life with first Postal Telegraph and Cable Co. and then Western Union which bought out PTCC. During the interview I was thinking how good Dad would feel to know he'd received recognition for his tireless work during WWI and WWII as the single-most accomplished telegrapher in the state. But when I read the article I realized I had dictated a bit of history that few people today would know, and fewer still would only faintly remember.

The telephone rang all morning of the day the article appeared. Fortunately, one of WU workers who had been in Dad's office called to tell me "his story." Mr. P jolted my memory of the many times he and Dad had to leave the comfort of their home on a Saturday to telegraph sports events, repair WU non-working clocks on tall buildings, in the Governor's Mansion, at the State Capitol. On several occasions when disaster hit, Dad would rush in the middle of the night to set up his telegraph key and send news of the event to New Orleans or Memphis because the local area had no means of communications. Mr. P's story underscored the work of men behind the scenes in a profession that few now remember.

I realized from one reader's call that I needed to continue writing this history, as there's no one else to do it in this state. Only old-timers remember the importance of telegrams. There were those sent celebrating happy occasions, announcing the arrival of a military general or a new baby, congratulating a new job, and during those war years, informing families of the death of their son, brother, uncle, cousin killed in the line of duty. Dad took all the messages, sometimes coming home after calling by telephone to announce in advance the arrival of the sad news. That's the only part of being a telegrapher he didn't like. He often said it was difficult not to choke up when reading the sad news.

Dad served his country by manning the telegraph key sending Morse Coded messages. I understand that the telegraphers were so adept at using Morse Code they could "talk" to the telegrapher at the other end and translate the coded message being sent at the same time. His fingers tapped faster than the proverbial speeding bullet. He continued to tap messages as he grew older, only the messages were absorbed into the wooden arm of the chair in which he sat. Once he contacted an old telegrapher in Georgia and suggested they tape messages to each other to keep their code knowledge fresh. What enjoyment these 70-somethings had! Living in the past when the present had forgotten them and their contributions.

Today I have the very telegraph key and sounder that he used in the 1930's and 1940's. Also there is a photograph showing the simple office of Postal Telegraph, with the entire team of five employees at their places. Despite the fact that I witnessed the events of their work from age three to six, I still have a fresh recollection of the way messages were sent and received in those days.

If you wish to read the article, you can find it at:
//www.clarionledger.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=2006603160357

Tidying Up Impossible

Tidying up my workspace is a never-ending responsibility. Here you see where I bead. I at least have bins for various beads, but the space where I actually work is always crowded. If I dare move a piece to another spot, I spend hours trying to remember where I put it! So when I've finished a portion of a project, everything stays where it last lay. Only when I begin another project do I straighten up the piles of rejected beads, scraps of thread, and search the carpet for stray bits of wire and tiny beads.

But this workshop is my heaven. I do more dreaming in that space than actual work. Right now I'm trying to figure out how to make available to prospective customers (wherever you are) a choice of making a necklace by combining strings of beads ready to be hooked to a chain or cord. I'll share one with you soon.

It's Daffodil Time!

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay;
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company;
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me has brought.

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
---William Wordsworth

March Has Arrived

Mississippi is abloom with color...and I still don't have my computer working. However, the warm, sunny days have made me forget that my writing hours have shortened.

Bobbisox, our wonderful Tabby, loves for us to walk in the yard with her. Her enthusiasm leads us out of the house to discover what Mom Nature is doing in our subdivision.

We've a new yard look, what HGTV calls "Curb Appeal." A desert garden with low maintenance plants for two lazy yard people. Beautiful.

The Ides of March...beware!

The Umteenth Telephone Call

Miss Dell returned from the hospital after I spent a horrendous few hours of discovering from the telephone company and Miss Dell's relatives that she needed a motherboard. Expecting six weeks without my companion, I resigned myself to using Sis' computer and gave myself a moratorium from research and answering emails.

To my surprise, Miss Dell left for Memphis for her operation on Thursday, returning the following Monday! Looked fit as a fiddle. I hugged her as I took her out of her cozy box, hooked her up to all the wires required by DSL--making her look like a real patient--and turned on the power.

She didn't blink, wink, or sniffle. Her eyes were dark. I could hear a faint heartbeat when the power button was pressed. SHE'S ALIVE! But her breathing was shallow.

Another phone call to her parents. They weren't home, but their maid-- called a tech supporter-- on call somewhere on the globe, speaking in broken English I barely could decipher, was ready to help me. Time: 2:30 p.m.

--Tell me your problem.
--Well, I sent Miss Dell to the hospital because I couldn't connect her to DSL. She's home and won't even look me in the eye!
--I see. You say she doesn't look at you?
--That's right. She is as dark as night. Like, you know, like she's dead.
--Let's perform a few tests. Hit the power button and tell me what happens.
--OK, I have turned on the power but the little light at the bottom edge flickers.
--What about the second light?
--Oh, it's flickering--oops, it's now off.
--Turn off the power and look at the back of the notebook.
--OK, I'm looking
--See the large latch? Push it and pull out the battery.
--Oh, that was easy. So that's what the battery lookss like.
--Find the rectangular compartment on the left hand side.
--I don't see an opening that shape here.
--Do you see where drive dee is?
--The what?
--The seedee drive,where you put your seedees.
--Oh, yes, the CD drive.
--Take out the screw of the door near the ceedee drive.
--Gosh, I don't have a screw driver that small! Why didn't Dell send me one with the computer?
--Just take out the screw.
--Ok, ok, I'll go look for a screw driver. What if I don't find one?
--Don't worry, we'll do just fine.
(I remembered the small set I bought at the grocery store to repair eyeglasses. However, this Phillips screwdriver is a shaft only. I find a small pair of pliers, hoping to get a good hold on the shaft.)
--Ok, I've got a screwdriver. I'm loosening the screw. Hey, it won't come loose! Should I turn left or right to loosen?
--Just relax. You will do just fine. (Obviously, she doesn't understand my English!)
--What if I can't get it loose? Can we continue?
--I told you not to worry. Let's look at the other side for now. Do you see a screw near oh?
--Where is oh? OH, I see, you mean the letter O. I see it.
--Now, loosen the screw and remove the door.
--Look, I couldn't loosen the last screw; Why do you think I can get this one loose? Hmmm, this isn't as difficult as the other one...I think I've got it...YES,I'VE GOT IT LOOSE!! Now, what's next.
--Take out the memory cards.
--The what? I've never done this before. There're no cards in here.
--The little green memory cards. There are white latches on the side. Lift them out.
--Look, I've never taken apart a computer before. Are you sure you'll stay with me to the end?
--Have confidence. I'll stay with you. Lift the green cards at a 45 degree angle.
--Is it ok to put my fingers on them?
--Sure, no bother. Take them out and put them aside.
--Got'cha.
--Do you see the small black arrow? Push it towards the right and when you do, take out the ceedee drive.
--You mean I don't have to remove the screw?
--This is another way to get the ceedee drive out. Now, turn over the notebook and power it on.
--Ready.
--Hit the effentee.
--Uh, please repeat that...
--The effentee.
--Sorry, I don't know what that is.
--F as in Frank, N as in Nancy, tee.
--Ohhh, the FN key. Ok, I'm hitting it.
--Does the light turn on?
--Nothing.
--OK, turn over the notebook and return the memory cards,the ceedee drive and the battery.
--Don't leave me, just in case I forget where everything goes.
--Just don't worry.

Time: 4:30 p.m. Final diagnosis for Miss Dell: her el eee dees were out. A minor short? The tech said I'd receive new ell ee dees on Friday and she'd call and tell me how to put them in.

Gosh, another few hours to look forward to on the darn telephone. I'm ready for an Apple.

Valentine's Day Past and Present

In our family treasure trove of famous experiences we recall one Valentine's Day that daughter JE insisted on giving all her second graders a card. She waited until six o'clock the 13th to make this decision.Off to the local drugstore where a package of 50 was reduced to $1.00. Closing the door to her room, she refused let any of us see what she was writing on each of the 24 cards.

The following day her teacher sat down with me at lunch at the school where I and the three kids went daily. She asked, "Did you read your daughter's words on the cards she gave her classmates?" I gazed at her a millisecond wondering if this question meant JE showed cleverness or stupidity. I shook my head no and she continued, "She wished them a 'happy VD day'," and burst out laughing. I had to smile.

I've always admired my husband's ability to deliver two-liner rhymes. This year I decided to extend my writing ability to poetry. I began by finishing his rhymes daily (something we do when driving in the car long distances). I became brave enough to send rhyming birthday greetings to my friends. After all, these verses were original and funny. In a pinch I'd have to ask R for help. After a month of producing verses I was exhausted. Today, I woke up, stumbled to the kitchen where I found written:

Ode to My Valentine

Hip hip hooray for Valentine's Day
A time to love a time to play.
A chance to express my love for you
In a very, very special way.
So here it is, for what it's worth,
A V'day gift in an obtuse verse--
(That may suffice for candy and spice).
Again I say, hip hip hooray
For a wonderful, loving Valentine's Day.

Well, I couldn't refuse to pen my own words:

To R on This Day

Ho, ho, ho, hey, hey, hey,
Finally today is Valentine's Day
Thanks for always being here
Delivering your daily dose of cheer;
Luv ya', luv ya', luv ya', Dear.

Crazy poetry can be the spice of life!

HE'S HERE!!!

The Strawberry Man has arrived. This vendor has been selling this fruit at the same spot in north Jackson for years. He has a loyal following of folks who depend on this Louisiana fruit. We usually don't see these berries until March. The only ones available are from California and Florida. Most folks around here know that California strawberries shipped in to the local grocery store aren't sweet--just sort of red. Florida berries are ok sweet, but there's a difference in the taste of those from Louisiana. UMMM. Sweet, red, ready to mash and pour over pound cake or shortcake or angel food cake. Dopple a bit of whipped cream on top and you have a delightful dessert. Anyone eating berries locally grown have the delightful advantage over eating those shipped long distances.

The reason for the early sale of the berries is, according to the LSU Agriculture Extention news, farmers in Louisiana have been using new methods to keep the soil warm. Row coverings of plastic mulch and cloth-type mulch. The old method was to spray water on top of the plants and as the water froze, heat was released to protect the budding plants. No longer do farmers have to flood their fields and risk disease problems. The new methods allow the farmers to produce berries as early as December.

Prices here are $2 per pint or $24 flat of 12. Florida strawberries are selling for $2.50 in local grocery stores. Rarely have I seen Louisiana berries sold in chain grocery markets. Vendors like the one above set up their trucks and vans at specific points around the metro Jackson area.

There's a bowl of mashed strawberries mulling on the kitchen counter with a bit of sugar (to hasten breakdown and give some juice). I'll be ready for my "afternoon delight" about 3:00 p.m. Then in the morning I'll have strawberries on my granola after that, there'll be pickings all day long for a berry or two to pop into my mouth, until this flat is gone. I've most of the month to enjoy this year's crop. Sorry you won't be around this afternoon for a sample.

Winter Feast of Theatre

Every year in February the Alabama Shakespeare Festival holds Southern Writers' Project Festival of New Plays. This year was the third visit for Sis and me to Montgomery to listen to new playwrights. This theatre has a repertory group and MFA students from UA. They read the parts of a new play with gusto, bringing life to the written word. The purpose of public readings of the new plays is to give the audience a chance to critique what they've heard. What is the theme of the play, was it clear? Did the characters grow during the play? Some six questions give us direction of criticism. Two plays were in their second phase of reading. These were composed of African-American actors in familiar situations. One was based on the story of four little girls killed in a school bombing(Four Saints) and the other was a story of a black church in conflict(Santified). All readers were excellent actors and singers. The former was a drama and the latter a showcase of the actors' virtuosity of acting and singing. Both written by new black playwrights.

New plays read included Gee's Bend by Elyzabeth Gregory Wilder and Love and Other Strange Phenomena by Peter Hicks. The young writers contributed The Last Dance by Caitlin Bach, The Party Pie of the Year by Laura Bradick and Conscience: A Story of the Inner Psyche by Samantha Pace.

This year we saw two fully-produced on stage plays, The Bird Sanctuary by Frank McGuinness and Pure Confidence by Carlyle Brown. The highlight of Sanctuary was the appearance of Hayley Mills, well-known actress of movies and British plays. The other actors were from New York stage: Elizabeth Franz,Diane Ciesla, Martin Rayner, and Westley Whitehead. This play was originally produced by the Abbey Theatre, Dublin. This was a confusing play of a disfunctional family of three adult children arguing over selling the family home, which would leave the single sister homeless. It should have remained in Dublin, in my opinion.

Confidence was a typical Southern story of a black jockey and a white man whose horse the jockey rode. Written by a black playwright, this is a tender story of one white family who truly loved the jockey but were restrained from helping him achieve freedom due to the slavery laws of that day.

Besides hearing new plays and their themes, our attendance give us opportunity to discuss the plays with the playwrights, record our impression of the play that will help the author hone his writing skills. We become better audience members by this means and by listening to media critics and theatre directors explore issues and ideas of the theatre of today and where its heading.

The Shakespeare Festival is committed to the Classics and Repertory Theatre and feature a variety of plays throughout the year. Sis and I go for a weekend of plays a few times a year. This is our fix, our substitute for being unable to attend plays in NYC. However, in Montgomery, actors and directors from that great theatre city come to us. Few people we know take advantage of this opportunity. Maybe it's the 5 hour drive...maybe it's the lack of interest in theatre...maybe the unfamiliarity of this jewel in Alabama...

NPR's All Things Considered calls the Alabama Shakespeare Festival "a theatre junkie's nirvana." Want to join us? See www.ASF.net

Thinking of You, Dad

Today marks the eighth year I've not sat in Dad's room talking with or listening to him talk. Our best conversations came when we walked around the block or were riding to an appointment.

When he and Mother closed their home and moved in with my husband and me in 1992, adjustments had to be made. There was no guidebook on how to deal with the elderly, so we created our own. Mother was the most adaptable of the two parents.

Dad challenged us in many ways. Tempermental and impatient to anyone but his kids and grandkids, he was a voracious reader, a sports enthusiast, an inveterate worker. He was a junk food addict, a repairer par excellance of antique clocks, a consistent church attendee, a devoted letter writer.

A lover of birds, he once cared for blue jays that had fallen from their nest. The enclosed porch became a large bird house to keep them warm until their feathers grew. When they were ready to fly, he released them and enjoyed their frequent return. He was a gardener who encouraged birds to visit him often by planting bird-friendly flowers.

Having only an eighth grade education, he had a flourishing handwriting, an inquisitive mind, and a knowledge of good grammar and spelling. His work as a telegrapher with Postal Telegraph (which later became Western Union) required him to use correct English. He abhorred the idea that anyone would mispronounce words, write incoherent sentences, or misuse commas and apostrophes. He was valued as a telegrapher and worked during WWII to relay messages by Morse Code between Memphis and New Orleans. He never lost the ability to tap out letters, but was too deaf to hear the code played at the end of each week's episode of the television series NYPD Blue.

I have wonderful memories of my dad: his pushing me in a swing at Poindexter Park; teaching me to ride a bike on a brick sidewalk; washing my hair in the kitchen on Saturday nights; washing the family car on Saturday afternoons; the funny remarks he'd leave attached to the notes my sister and I left pinned on the front door; modeling his first "leisure" suit ...a real Dapper Dan. Even as a young man as you see above, he loved to dress well.

He was the only dad of all our friends who helped with housework and shared in taking care of his daughters. He had a sense of humor that to us sometimes was misused, other times embarrassing(whenever we were expecting a call from a young man, he'd answer the phone with "Insane Asylum" or "City Jail" sending us into dire embarrassment). Basically, his humor got us through a lot of difficult times, made experiences unforgetable.

When we had dates, if the young man didn't have polished shoes, Dad discourage us from a second date, emphasizing that the care of one's clothes and shoes was paramount. Dad, himself, never failed to polish his shoes to perfection weekly.

Every month when the Readers Digest arrived in our mailbox, the assignment at the dinner table was to review the "How to Increase Your Word Power." He made a game of teaching us the meanings of new words every evening.

One of Dad's proud moments was to receive a "commendation" from a poetry group(whose advertisement was always in magazines)indicating he was a First Rate Poet, or some such title. We never told him that probably every person who sent in a poem received the same printed paper. His poetry rhymed in a lackadaisical way, but he celebrated any and all special occasions with a ditty. At the insistence of many church friends, he'd pen a poem about that person for a birthday gift.

He had the ability to express himself with the written word. He wooed our mother with the sweetness of honey in telegrams he sent her in the early 1930's. A regular Romeo, he was. Later when each of his daughters were born or when some special occasion occurred, Dad penned a telegram. When fax machines became the staple of Western Union's messages, those telegrams stopped. Those sent to our family are yellowed with age and a prize of the family.

Despite Dad's faults and narrow focus of world changes, despite the fact that he didn't know how to express his love with "I love you" verbally, he expressed his feelings in other ways. He was generous and sensitive, using humor to hide his disappointments.

When I began to understand and appreciate my dad more, his life had run its course. He died at home in the loving comfort of his four "girls"(wife, 2 daughters, and only gran'daughter).

Movie Theaters Yesterday and Today

Just when one thinks movie houses are suffocating from the competition of downloaded movies on all sorts of electronics, my humble city is about to open its arms to a fancy new theater. The local headlines in a recent edition of our newspaper declared, "Movie night is going upscale."

Opening February 17 is "a $14 million movie house with stadium seating, state-of-the-art digital sound, expanded concessions, an arcade, party rooms and internet cafe." Ticket holders will enter into an "Italian-style lobby, complete with fountain" in an atmosphere of a five-star-hotel! One side of the lobby will have tables surrounding a fireplace for snacking while up to 3300 folks will watch on 10 screens holding 100-150 people each. The best part of this theatre is that not just major releases will be shown, but a fair share of art and foreign films will be available.

This sounds great for one who still loves the big screen, but will I have to put on formal wear? Well, the Madison city officials are talking about a dress code! Tickets will range from $6 to $8 and no telling how easily the cost of popcorn and sodas will drain our pockets.

I remember the first time a "state-of-the-art" theater opened in Jackson. I was in the tenth grade and The Lamar Theater was supposed to upgrade the old Paramount Theater. Ahh, lush carpets (homes still sported hardwood floors) cushioned our feet. Beautiful lighting, comfortable seats, handsome rest rooms. Dressing up for a date to the movies was natural for us then.

A year ago an old school chum wrote to remind me that our first date was the opening of the Lamar. I dared not tell him I didn't remember. But I recall going to the Lamar with the guy who is now my husband. Saturday nights at the movie house was THE BIG DATE for us bebopping kids.

Two years ago in the local laundrette in Narrowsburg,NY I met a little lady who was waiting for her clothes to wash and dry. We struck up a conversation because I asked her if her Florida tag on her parked car outside indicated she was a true Southerner or a transplanted New Yorker. She was the latter. In our conversation she told me she used to be a dancer at the famed New York City Roxie Theater. She had begun there as a sixteen year old and later transferred to a more sumptious theater in Berlin. For the next two months while our clothes swirled and tumbled, I listened to my new friend's adventures on stage from the late 1920's to early 1930's. I researched online the Roxie so I could ask her questions. The Roxy had been a premier palace of its time.

Built in 1927 it was dubbed by its creator the "Cathedral of the Motion Picture". Cavernous it was. 5,290 patrons purchased tickets, walked through a huge lobby with a foyer rotunda five stories high, a massive chandelier hanging above them. The main theater had three balconies as well as the main floor. Abundant statues and carved pillers adorned the walls, and before the movie began a full orchestra played or a carillion chimed as patrons took their seats.

Between movies were the matinees, with clowns and jugglers sharing stage with dancers who tapped and toed through routines in magnificent, colorful costumes. My friend Terey said she and her fellow dancers learned to stand on huge balls and do gymnastics as part of their dancing. Triple stage elevators topped with a turntable allowed the entertainers to be shown in full cyclorama. The four-track sound system boomed as patrons looked at the movie on the gigantic screen. For interesting photos of this theater, cut and paste this address: http://www.gabesplayerpianos.org/html/Roxy.html.

Several years later as I sat in the Lamar Theatre in Jackson with my cardboard 3D glasses perched on my nose, the Roxy was reaching its decline. Fortunately, its magnificence has been duplicated in Sydney Australia, at the State Theatre Sydney, which has many of the magnificent features of the Roxy: foyer rotunda, art galleries, marble lights and statues. It's still active and is a main attraction there.

I'm readying to experience the excitement of the opening of the Lamar and a bit of the magnificence of the Roxy when the new theatre in Madison opens next month.

I Love Libraries

My visits to the local library nowadays are brief. Sometimes I spend a quarter of an hour if I know exactly what I want; othertimes, I'll remain a full half hour. There were years when I was younger that I'd spend an entire afternoon sequestered between aisles of thousands of stories waiting for me to explore.

My first introduction to the city library occurred when I was 12 years old. My teacher, noting my interest in reading, suggested that I try the downtown library where I could find more book choices. The following Saturday morning I walked three blocks from our duplex and boarded a bus for a 15 minute ride into the heart of the city. Finding the library presented only one hitch. I didn't know what kind of building to expect. With written directions in hand I found myself before a set of wide, curving steps facing the corner of the block across from the New Capitol. I remember how stately the building was.

When I entered through the sturdy wood door, I was struck by all the rows of books on shelves higher than my house (or so it seemed to me). The ceiling above the librarian's desk had a deep indention, which today I'd recognize as a rotunda. And the smell--a rendolence of ink, crisp paper, aged bindings mixed with the heat of the sunshine streaming through the open windows only added to the mystery of the place. I remained for several hours, wandering the aisles, tracing my finger across every book, pulling out some to caress and reading authors' names. There were no book covers then, and most bindings were in colors of brown, black, red, and blue. Large fans murmuring a coolness in the summers and radiators clanking heat in the winters were the only noises made in the silence of this wonderland.

I enrolled and received my card with a warning not to lose it or face a charge. I treated that card as precious as the books I checked out. "You can have two books for one week." the librarian said. That was a happy announcement, proclaiming my new routine of weekly visitation. Being an absorbed reader, I could have easily read the two choices I'd selected while on the return bus home; instead, I examined the covers, the printing, the illustrations. I pronounced the authors' names. Sometime in the afternoon I'd find a special place to read these particular stories. The life of Sagajawea and her involvement with the Lewis and Clark expedition was one of the two books.

Through the years I've maintained my library card and followed the city library to its various new homes. When I moved to a nearby town as an adult, I helped found a Friends of the Library and a fledgling small-town collection grew over the 25+ years of my membership. My love affair with the library has deepened, begun that day when I opened the door of that stately building in Jackson, Mississippi.

Searching through Jackson, A Special Place by Carroll Brinson published in 1977 I found a photo of that beloved building that became a part of my life. Doesn't look like the libraries of today, does it?

Chinese Buffet on a Budget

Today Sis and I ate at a new Chinese Buffet called "No. 1 Chinese Buffet." After entering the pleasantly-decorated restaurant, I agreed it had to be number one. Three aisles of hot and cold foods--a kaleidoscope of colors and tastes. Clean, organized,and such variety! Located in a new strip mall, the exterior can easily be seen by motorists making their way to and from the newest, busiest shopping center only a few miles south. This "all you can eat" place had dinner plates just a bit larger than a salad plate, so this fact encouraged me to finish a platter of shrimp and go after vegetables and meat on a second plate, followed by another plate of fruit and dessert. You can bet that the $7.95 cost for Sunday lunch included a variety of cakes, pudding, cookies and ice cream and unlimited drink! How can these folks make a living offering three dishes each of shrimp,chicken, pork; two choices of rice; five types of vegetables, those sweet rolls with a splatter of sugar on top; two kinds of soup; and those dessert for one price?? And their choice of fortune cookies even has updated fortunes. On the back side is one word or phrase given in Chinese and it's English counterpart. What a fun way to learn a few phrases!

Wrestling with Electronics

Confession: Following directions nowadays or operating new electronics is like hands in sticky biscuit dough. You have to flour your hands and start over again.

Recently I ordered an external DVD driver (with ability to burn CD's). I had this feeling that I'd be able to sit at my computer and watch movies and "how-to" DVD's with no more than a plug and play situation. With help from the Family Computer Guru, software installed, I sat down to watch "Songcatcher" about a musicologist who discovers early Scots-Irish ballads still sung in Applachia. The characters began to act strangely, almost robot like, and their words garbled five minutes into play.

On the phone with Dell. An electronic voice asks me questions and misunderstands my answers.I repeat them several times until "she" says "I understand you said 'yes', am I correct?Let me turn you over to someone who can help you". Finally a real voice answers and after a few questions, she puts me on hold. I give up after 20 minutes of recorded suggestions by Dell as to how to use the internet for technical problems. Several days of phoning results in same routine of waiting. I resort to Dell's NEW internet chat with a technical adviser. State my problem, given a solution, uninstall the software and boom! Microsoft says I have trouble. The computer now is frozen in "safe mode," something I know only as a security. But how to recover my material? In comes Family Guru with his magic touch plunks on keys and restores my machine to normal with a verbal warining: "Mom, never assume you can do anything with software without calling me." I argue that I want to act on my own. How else can I learn this inane area of computers? "You don't," he adds,"No one makes software easy for moms-turned-computer fiends to understand."

Now I have a DVD drive that's not performing. One more try and I'll exchange it for a Sony DVD Player! That'll show Dell!

First Appointment

The waiting room was crowded like a coop full of baby chicks. How could my sister make her 10 a.m. appointment with this many souls ahead of her? I searched the room. Only a few wore hats or turbans. Did this mean the rest were not cancer patients? I spoke to my sister, "Pick out the covering for your head from the selections you see." We laughed and agreed that nothing could make our heads look entrancing to the public. We were never hat women. We only wore them in our young teen and college years when that was the fashion. Sis' hair stylist told her she had a perfect head and didn't need to cover it up. She also warned her she'd have six weeks before her hair fell out. An upper followed by a downer. We agreed only k.d.lang could go hatless and hairless at the same time.

Silence. I vowed to keep Sis company until she went into the chemical cubicle. We watched individuals go in for blood tests, tried to determine if they were CP's too. Sis' name was called; we thought this was IT. But the nurse wanted to put the needle into the port in her shoulder. Sis gets weak at the sight of a needle, except the sewing kind. Even if the injection doesn't hurt, once she's seen the needle, you can count on a fainting spell. She returned smiling, "Nothing to it." A few minutes later she bent over saying she didn't feel well. No fainting this time. Fifteen minutes passed and she announced she could sit and wait alone, for me to go home until she called to be picked up. I left with a lump in my chest. I mentally sent all the strength I could to her until she called to say she was finished and ready to return home. She was smiling big when I arrived outside the Cancer Unit. "Will it always be like this?" I asked. "I don't think so."she replied. "Today those chemicals went into a healthy body. In the next few sessions I won't have a healthy body, and then, watch out!" We have a long journey together before the six months are behind us.

An Ordinary Jewelry Maker

Never having had a hobby using my hands, I began over 10 years ago taking jewelry classes. I became a so-so beader, an ok silversmithy, and now I'm into working with precious metal clay. The latter takes less time to complete a piece. Like a lump of clay there are tiny micrograms of silver flakes in a binder that you roll out and stamp an impression with collected items like a leaf, kitchen grater, seashell, button. Dried then placed in a kiln where the binder turns to ash, you have a brooch, pendant, or whatever your intention ready to polish. In less than a day you can make an array of items. PMC is going to be my medium for awhile. I've had two weekend courses to give me basics, and here's what I've done.


However, some years ago I made my sister a rosary--Episcopalian style of 28 small beads, 6 large beads and a cross. When I went to the local church gift shop to double check the bead design, I was told to bring in a sample...and my life as a beader began. In addition to the rosaries I've created finger rosaries--7 small beads, one large one and a cross-- and bracelets with same design for a few church customers. I call my smaller rosaries "Meditation Beads" so anyone of any faith can use them. An enclosed guide helps use the item.




Surprisingly, the meditation beads are quite popular. At one gift shop the rosaries are preferred by foreign tourists and local Americans buy the meditation beds. Why, do you ask? The med beads are very inexpensive and since foreign visitors have more money to spend, they want the rosaries. Now I can claim that my rosaries are used world-wide and the meditation beads used throughout the United States!

With a hobby like mine, there's never a profit. The money gained just buys me more materials, tools and pays for more courses. Recently I bought several beading videos to help me plan some eye-popping necklaces. You'll see the results soon.