LITERATURE AND LIFE

2012-01-07T16:18:00.000-08:00

Our Fourth Greatest President

It could have been easily missed on Bill O’Reilly’s show last night, or the night before, for he didn’t stress it. If I heard right, he said that Obama named the three greatest presidents the USA had had. Their names slipped by me before I realized what O’Reilly said. Then Obama added he himself was the fourth! O’Reilly said, “George Washington was not in the list.”

Well, Obama ranks first on another list of presidents: the First Most Unbalanced President, full of egotism and hubris. ♠

2012-01-07T10:20:00.000-08:00

Newt Is the One

While I recently predicted Santorum would win the Iowa caucus (and came within 8 points of doing so, and that count is questionable), I’ve also said Newt Gingrich is the only one of the GOP candidates who can possibly defeat Obama. I now say Newt will likely win the New Hampshire Primary next Tuesday.

Some of you might have just now seen and heard what I saw and heard on C-SPAN2, when Newt had a highly successful and rousing town hall meeting-type gathering in New Hampshire, that cinched my decision. Without teleprompters he talked about an hour, covering every important aspect of what’s wrong with the present administration and what he could do and would do to fix it. He spoke in mainly long sentences of which every one was greeted with enthusiastic applause. His short sentences were cleverly pithy, interspersed at just the right time. This is the first occasion—it seems to me—that he has actually had the opportunity to speak at length without media interference. He’s still there, accepting kudos and photo shots.

Tonight’s debate will be an important one and there’s another one tomorrow morning. I do not know which channels these are scheduled for. I hope you will make an effort to take one of these in. ♥

2012-01-04T10:34:00.000-08:00

Two Winners in the Iowa Caucus

Well, I picked a winner, didn’t I? Santorum got only eight fewer votes than Romney received. Both of them made great speeches afterwards, but if anyone is dreaming of following in the footsteps of Ronald Reagan, Santorum comes closer to that goal, as far as speech-making is concerned. Both Candidates have lovely families. It will be interesting to watch those young people, if they end up in the White House.

Santorum also proved it does not take a fortune to maintain an organization to get elected. Or a bus! A truck can get you there.

Two of last night’s candidates seem to be about to drop out of the running. But in the case of Newt Gingrich and his rivals, we are told to expect fireworks in New Hampshire, starting today. I don’t anticipate watching that but catch some of it in reruns.

I am having a particularly painful day, otherwise, with my injuries. ♥

2012-01-02T15:19:00.000-08:00

The Iron Lady

Michelle Bachman said today in Iowa that she wanted to be America’s Iron Lady. If she is elected president, what would her husband be called? First Gentleman? First Man? First Husband? I prefer First Man of these names, but then he would be nicknamed Adam, wouldn't he?

I figure this is already decided and just not revealed yet.

If all these uses here of the Passive Voice annoy you, you can rewrite the blog in the Active Voice. Thanks. ♥♥♥

2012-01-02T10:58:00.000-08:00

A Nice Surprising Find

Today, an interesting link (to my Lindsley family) showed up on my blog work page. If you Lindsley cousins have ever wondered about the origin of the name Adrian Van Sinderen Lindsley, here is something to check out:

http://www.bing.com/search?q=Adrian+van+sinderen%2C+esq+nashville

I first learned of AVS, without the surname Lindsley, in a Ford magazine over 50 years ago. I think the mag was called, perhaps still is, Ford Times, subscriptions given to customers who bought a new Ford. AVS was a wealthy man with splendid stables and carriages in the northeast, Connecticut, I think. I have no idea, at this point, the connection between AVS and our own g’g’grandfather Philip Lindsley, that the latter obviously named his eldest son, my g’grandfather, for this AVS. When time allows, I’ll read the link material. ♥

2011-12-31T17:24:00.000-08:00

My Decision on the Iowa Caucus

You may recall I’ve said before in this blog, that Herman Cain stated that all a presidential candidate needs to become a good president is intelligence and character, for he will have all around him men chosen for the right advice on matters of state. I’ve had my eye on a certain candidate who has these two factors in generous supply, plus much more of the knowledge of matters of state.

I cast my vote for Rick Santorum, the one who has the perfect family for the White House—remember my saying that early on too? I heard part of his speech today from Iowa. No teleprompters and spoken from the heart. He quoted Chuck Colson who said most of the inmates in our prisons today are there because of the breakdown of the idea of marriage. [Not a direct quote.] Santorum is a good man for these times. Chuck Colson knows what he’s talking about. He’s a very good man too, whose life work is trying to help prisoners find their way back and not repeat their crimes.

I’m not posting 31 blogs for December, though I could if not for the pain. ♥

2011-12-30T21:08:00.000-08:00

Explanation

My “Mostly for Americans” blog wasn’t quite clear. Of course, I knew you could not click on the blog itself. I meant for you to type it in and locate it. I did that to find exactly which rendering of the Hymn it was, and will tell you it’s the one sung by four high school choirs plus a kid’s elementary school choir. I do hope you will listen to it. It’s great. I do have an excuse for my clumsiness, you recall. I am in great pain.

Every month I aim to write the number of blogs that the month has days. There’s one more day this month and I need to write four more blogs. Maybe I should make some more mistakes and then write short apologies! I hope you all have a good sense of humor. Humor aside, my blog has had 46 hits today. ♥

2011-12-30T15:57:00.000-08:00

AOL Could Do a Better Job

A different neighbor brought in my mail today. He’s the third man in my block who has done so since my surgery. From him, I learned the first man is not doing so well after his surgery of Wednesday. Just about an hour ago I, learned of another friend who is not doing well after an unusual activity, shooting a woodpecker pecking holes in his house. It’s a story that should be written up, but I’m not the one to do so.

I mention these things, not that they are items for AOL’s daily news on my computer, but partly because of the news AOL does present us with each day. A typical line-up of topics includes: a mansion on sale for a few million, the latest car design or mistakes in auto manufacturing, precious pictures of missing children that break my heart, pictures of missing moms, political facts and gossip, some celebrity couple’s pending divorce, sports often with a fight between players and coaches and even with the crowd watching, the scantiest attire some movie star wore in public, some drug bust or related activity, ad infinitum. What an ugly self-portrait we offer to other countries.

Immediately after 9/11, AOL cleaned up its act a bit. It even sounded patriotic, but that didn’t last long. With the world in its present chaos, we don’t need most of this stuff clouding our screens and our attention. Someone will say, “Oh, it gives us relief to think of those things.” What a thin canvas supporting such thoughts.

AOL, give us something more enlightening, more important to real life, more beneficial, more inspirational. The scanty attire is not news. When you’ve seen it once, you’ve seen it all. Boring!

What can you do for your country? ♥

2011-12-30T11:25:00.000-08:00

Mostly for Americans

Somewhere in this blog, is the mention that I cry easily at touching news. I’ve just had a sudden attack of tears from a forward that I hope you can locate. It’s certainly not news but is as old as time itself.

Click here: Battle Hymn ♥♥♥

2011-12-30T07:18:00.001-08:00

Here Is More about that Nasty Fall

On Thursday, December 22, as I was about to enter WinCo supermarket I fell, and someone called 911. For once, I heard the siren blowing for me. My spine was fractured but did not require surgery. The silliest thing a doctor can say to a woman living alone is, "Rest, and time will heal it." So, five days later, around 5:30 a. m., I fell again, hitting the same spot on the hip. (I must have strong bones.) This time, I had to press my Watch Dog alert for help, for I couldn't move my body. Believe me, the fire department’s turning metal against metal to get into my house is about the most wonderful sound in the world. Firemen are my heroes, and they were there in about five minutes.

The paramedics were right behind them, of course, and I opted not to go back to Emergency. So, I am living with the pain of recovery and reading anything seems not to delight at the moment.

But I want to tell you what I learned in the process.

The firemen got here first but they did not come to the room where a dim light showed and where I was. In fact, they could actually partially see me from the entryway, and see pictures I had knocked down from the wall, but I could not see them at first. But they went in the other direction.

I think there were two reasons for that: they knew the paramedics had arrived, and in this day of high and weird crimes, they checked out the house. Then they came to me, saw they weren't needed further, and departed. Later, I saw they had left a light burning in my study. Well, I'm glad they do check that way, even in a nice neighborhood. That conclusion goes into my memory for "crime facts." ♥

2011-12-25T19:31:00.000-08:00

Good Report

If you’re keeping up with the progress of my recent accident, let me say I am a little better. It’s easier to get in and out of a chair, and I’ve found an excellent way to sit there for a rest. In a big wing-back chair, one ordinary toss pillow cushions my back. Under each arm stands a fat sofa pillow that rests the arms. Then while the arms rest, they also hold up my head. I can sleep in that position. My feet stay on the floor, and so, I don’t spend the night in that fashion, but must resort to the agony of getting into bed.

It’s such a hurt to function, that I forgot to open my Christmas presents till almost 4:00 this afternoon. What lovely gifts! Seems I’ll be watching some new DVDs while eating banana bread in candlelight, and wearing a new outfit. This pain-killer sends me to sleep at the computer; I’ve had three naps since starting this blog. Time to quit. ♥

2011-12-25T16:48:00.001-08:00

’Tis the Season

Every year some singer or singers mar the Christmas carols by mispronouncing the word “Israel.” They sing out clearly and plainly “Is-rye-el.” Where do they get this abomination of the word? Look it up, and you’ll find this is wrong. It may be from their “little knowledge is a dangerous thing” bones. In Latin the “ae” is pronounced like a long “I” in English. But if you pronounce that word that way in this song, then there is no “e” left for the last syllable “el.”

Last night on the program following (I think), the wonderful West Point Holiday special, a young man sang a solo The First Noel, with the line, “Born is the King of Israel.” He seemed to exaggerate the mispronunciation, as if trying to show the audience how to say it. Man, did he goof! As I say, look it up. ♥

2011-12-25T16:48:00.000-08:00

2011-12-24T08:37:00.000-08:00

More about Solar Lights

One comment under my blog “Solar Lights and Family’s Doings” offers additional information for practical application of solar energy. I recommend my L&L readers check this out and also spread the word. I may repeat this advice several times, for I think it is important. I don’t understand every bit of this information, but perhaps most of you will. So, let there be light and all the other amenities of life we now pay money for. Wouldn’t you enjoy those free? Merry Christmas! ♥

2011-12-23T11:02:00.001-08:00

What a Thursday!

This blog is for my far-flung family and my close friends. For others, it may be boring.

Amy, my driver, and I started out with the regular Thursday appointments and had a quick lunch in the car, for she and Joe were having company that night and they would watch the BSU Bronco game against Arizona State. (BSU creamed them.)

Then we headed for the supermarket to buy fixings for a great Christmas dinner. I got out of the car at the door of WinCo and Amy was going to park. I didn’t get inside the store. I took a spill. My head and shoulders were inches from Amy’s front right tire. I remember hoping she would not run over me. Someone called 911 and soon I was on my way to St. Al’s. Tests later, I got the news that I had a fractured spine, a minor case not suitable for surgery, thank goodness. (I’d hate to experience a major type of this accident.)

In the meantime, Amy took my grocery list and shopped for me and got the groceries into the house, and stowed the cold stuff properly.

After I swallowed a pain pill called Norco, I was able to walk a bit in the hospital, and the doctor decided I could go home, but not in a cab. The nurse called Amy to the rescue with the order for me to rest and let the fracture heal itself. That’s what I’m doing. It’s restful to sit in this chair and type, but getting up and down is often excruciating. I am also half asleep for I took the second pain pill at 9:30 this morning, and none in the night.

This is to alert all readers that I may not be blogging for a few days. Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukah! ♥

2011-12-22T07:35:00.000-08:00

Catherine Crier Was Wrong

Catherine Crier was wrong last night on Greta’s show, by decrying Gingrich’s idea of Congress’s demanding an explanation from justices of the Supreme Court for their radical, unconstitutional decisions. Not once did she refer to the system of “checks and balances.” Not only should the Supreme Court be subject to this check by Congress, but also, the President should be likewise. As for the check on Congress, this goes on all the time: members are checking each other constantly. The problem with this branch of government is that it’s almost impossible to get one side to listen to the other side well enough. A balance is often lacking.

Although Crier was once a judge, Gingrich is a greater intellect. I’m quite sure he understands the Constitution more clearly than Crier does. ♥

2011-12-21T08:23:00.000-08:00

Solar Lights and Family’s Doings

Now winter has begun, by the calendar. This area hasn’t seen any real winter yet, but we probably will in the next two months. By e-mail I sent quite a number of people the forward about solar lights. Every household should have these in their yard so that when power outages occur, they can be brought into the house to give light, and the next day go back into the yard to “gas up” again for the next night.

Christmas mail has diminished this year at my house, that is, via the Post Office. E-mails galore, however. And as many letters as cards. The new addition is more Christmas telephone calls. The economy isn’t the only reason for the change. So many of my Christmas contacts are as old as I am, and may not be able to handle such mailings. I spent hours composing my first long letter—three big pages—mailed it, and then revised it to fit the next recipient, and continued revising and mailing. It takes a great deal of time for this, and I won’t finish the project till sometime after Christmas. I haven’t heard from two ladies who were my teenage friends, who live in Oklahoma and Kentucky. Perhaps today.

The grandson, who was moving to Texas from California, got his family settled there in the same town as the other two grandchildren who live there. I hope they are located near a public library, for this family is full of readers. In California the library was about a block away from the house. How delicious! So, the family Christmas dinner will obviously be enjoyed in that town without anyone’s needing to drive a distance.

I am enjoying my new 42 –inch HD television, but haven’t memorized all the numbers of the channels I watch. I am considering purchasing a few more channels.

Tomorrow is another Thursday. I may go into a book store. I’m planning to Nook in Dean Koontz’s new novella The Moonlit Mind, but I want to see another book in person before I Nook it. Koontz is one of my favorite authors.

Just think, if you had a few solar lights in your house during a power outage, you might still be able to read!

And now, to watch from a quiet distance as men cut down the huge weeping willow tree in the yard next door. If only the neighbor on the other side of my yard would cut down his willow tree, what a cleaner backyard mine would be. ♥

2011-12-17T21:05:00.001-08:00

Paul and Huntsman Belong in the Just Prior Blog

I meant no slight by forgetting Ron Paul and Jon Huntsman in discussing the GOP candidates. We keep hearing they don’t have a chance; that must have been in the back of my mind. They are also good men. Ron Paul is a medical doctor (OB/GYN, I believe). Why would a doctor leave his practice and go into Congress? Perhaps to change the laws which affect his profession? The talk says Paul may win the Iowa caucus but could not win the nomination. I don’t know enough about Huntsman to have an opinion.

Romney is gathering endorsements, but I think the only one of them who can beat Obama at the polls is Newt Gingrich. ♥

2011-12-17T11:56:00.000-08:00

A Woman Can Change Her Mind

If a woman had been in on writing our country’s founding papers, she would have likely included the above sentence somewhere in them. That is, the independent type of female would have. Perhaps such women get the blame or the credit for today’s women of thought. So, I’m preparing you for my changing my mind.

I am not sure which presidential candidate I’m for at the moment. It was news to me, till about an hour ago, that Newt Gingrich created the practice of earmarks! So, why don’t we leave him to write his good history books, and elect someone else. More enlightenment will probably turn up.

I have pointed out two good men, Santorum and Cain. I will add to that list Romney, Perry, and Bachman. But a word about Bachman: If women read what I’m saying here, most of them in the country would surely chastise me. But I really don’t think our president should be a woman who dresses in the current style when that style is a skirt half way up her thigh when she sits. Or a dress that is as form-fitting as Princess Kate’s sister’s dress in the Royal Wedding. When such a president walks across a room, all the male eyes—which dominate the gathering—will not remember what they are there for, but will take in the show. I’m not suggesting Bachman dress like former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, but how about like Nancy Reagan? A female president does not have to live by current styles, but set her own, and let the country follow suit.

Actually, I prefer a male in the presidency, and I won’t go into reasons for that preference. But the above reason is enough. ♥

2011-12-16T20:52:00.000-08:00

Dear Lori in Colorado,

You must not be reading your e-mail, for you haven’t answered an important one I sent you several days ago. Here’s hoping to hear soon. ♥♥♥

2011-12-16T14:37:00.001-08:00

Thursday Was Yesterday Again

It was a different sort of Thursday. After the hair salon, Amy and I had lunch at Applebee’s, shopped briefly at Target’s, and then she left me at my primary doctor’s office. It was only about 2:30. My appointment was for 4:15. But Amy needed to go to the dance recital of her little granddaughter, age 2, at 3:00 in another town.

So how did I spend my time as I waited to be called? Every now and then the doctor’s large waiting room cleared of patients. At that point I got to my feet and did exercises, looked out the big windows at the hospital compound three floors below, with tiny people constantly on the move, and tried to figure how I could take the big, beautiful Christmas tree home with me in my pocket. Then I was called, right at 4:15.

The doctor said he thought I would live, but he had blood drawn. He’ll mail me the results.

Then I met perhaps the twentieth cab driver I’ve used within the past year. It was almost dark when we reached my house. He left, but I should have had him unlock my front door for me. I could not manage it. Two locks. So, I walked to a neighbor’s and climbed what is to me a steep grade from the road to the house, not knowing if he and his wife were home. I saw no lights through windows, though the yard dazzled with Christmas lights. But they were home, and Stan said he’d put on his shoes and be right there. I started back and he got there the same time I did. He easily got the door opened and wanted to know what gave. So, I gave a recital about the recital, and the rest of it. Lovely neighbors, Stan and Jackie.

I was especially glad I had prepared my supper ahead of time. I took it easy last night and watched the debates in Iowa. Slept in my chair, through the debates the second time, and perhaps the third time, for I awoke at 2:10 and they were still at it. Then I went to bed, and to sleep about 2:30. Awoke at 5:30 and got up for the day. ♥

2011-12-16T13:48:00.001-08:00

Merry Christmas to My House

Every year I give a Christmas present to my house. It can be as simple as a decorative waste paper basket or something more expensive. This year it is a big item, not for my vanity’s sake, but for my eyesight’s sake: an HD television screen. It was delivered just before lunch today. The table for it came several days ago and Amy and I moved books to make room for it. I paid the delivery men to move the parts of the wall system from place to place to make room for the table. The next day Grace and I got the books back in place. Then I donated some great books I’ll never read again to the Idaho Youth Ranch store. They could be nice Christmas presents for other readers. I think I may be the last one in the family to have an HD set, for I haven’t desired one till now. Some in the family have more than one in their houses.

Giving presents to others is more enjoyable to me, of course. The problem these days is wrapping them for mailing and getting them to the P. O. Many of us senior citizens have to resort to giving checks. Let’s see now. There are 43 family members for me. Why don’t I send them each a hundred? That’s only $4,300. (Joke.) They have more money than I. (Not a joke.) But if they visit me, I usually have something to give them. Merry Christmas! ♥

2011-12-14T10:05:00.000-08:00

America, Then and Now

Currently, criticism is aimed at Newt Gingrich for his allegedly suggesting American children learn to clean toilets. His column today located at
NewtGingrich@email.humanevents.com explains what he is actually talking about, the worth ethic that made our country great. His critics left out he also suggested the children work in the school’s cafeteria, the office, the classroom, and not just clean toilets—and for real money.

Can you imagine the nonsense from the Labor Department that says children cannot work on the family farm?! Another American institution that helped make America great. By that equation, probably coming down the road, is the edict that girls cannot help their mothers around the house.

Why should we be like Europe in these respects? Read what has happened to France in a book by Corrine Maier, Hello Laziness: Why Hard Work Doesn’t Pay. Then be glad she singles out America as the exception to her rule. What America really does need now is the right man in the White House who knows how to govern and to lead. ♥

2011-12-12T10:39:00.000-08:00

What Really Matters

These days, we hear much about character, particularly with regard to presidential candidates. Voters criticize at the drop of a bit of hearsay, as well as the candidates’ castigating their rivals. Let’s take a moment for checking our own personal inventory of the standards we live by. What is it we see in our fellowman and dislike?

For me, two items: the lack of one’s not keeping his promises, no matter of how unimportant the one who makes the promise sees it. For example, if you promise me you will call, come by in person, answer my letter, be on time, read my blog, and all other such non-earth-shaking actions, I expect you to keep your word. If you break such a promise to me, it always means a waste of my time, as well as possibly loss of money.

Recently, I had to break a promise. However, I called and explained I could not do what I promised. The reason was that I had to go by ambulance to the emergency room at a hospital. That was around 5:00. I came home around 9:00 by cab. I cannot ask for favors from my friends and neighbors, even if they say, “Call me if you need anything anytime.”

The other item—well, it seems to be more of the same—breaking promises. But these are not promises for me, but for the person who makes the promise. Such as: he will read the book I recommended to him, loaned him, or gave him. When I do this, the book means a great deal to me and I want to share it with others. If it’s a loan, I certainly expect the return of the book within a reasonable time period, and I’m not talking about two or three days. Most such books I’ve recommended are on the small side, often less than 200 pages, and are books I’ve read several times. To name a few of my favorites: Man’s Unconquerable Mind (Highet); Fahrenheit 451 (Bradbury); Gift from the Sea (Lindbergh); My Normandy (Dennis); Eats, Shoots & Leaves (Truss); The Silence of the Sea (Vercors); Out of the Silent Planet (Lewis); A Point in Time (Horowitz); The Scapegoat (du Maurier).

Not for only politicians, but for everyone, promises are meant to be kept.

2011-12-11T19:39:00.000-08:00

Niall Ferguson

Another great book presented on C-SPAN today: Niall Ferguson’s Civilization: The West and the Rest. This book will air on PBS in 2012. Ferguson has a resume of one publication after another, seemingly all winners of some award or another, and holds several degrees, including a D. of Phil., and also several professorships and research scholarships. He is located on the Internet, of course, and I will not go into what is there for you to read. But I must tell you something that clicked with me from his interview. He said while he was still in his teens, he read Tolstoy’s War and Peace TWICE, and it changed his life.

He also said American society will not be right again till we elect leaders who understand and experience the kind of education he talks about in this book. He even referred to Shakespeare as an example of the sort of education he meant. I agree with that.

I will get this book as soon as I can, but I want to predict now that it will probably prove to be another MUM book, a companion to MUM. I imagine he is quite familiar with that gem of a book. If we liked Man’s Unconquerable Mind, we will surely like this one. ♥

2011-12-10T14:06:00.001-08:00

The Last Word

One of the primary instructions in Public Speaking 101 is pronouncing clearly the last few words of each sentence and not let them fade away. One newsman of the past excelled in this clarity, Edwin Newman. (He is a minor character as a newsman in Grisham’s film “Pelican Brief.”) But currently, this bit of learning seems not important enough for many making speeches or commenting on the news, to make the effort. Many persons on television are “fading away,” if I may put it that way, by forgetting to sound those last words as distinctly as the rest of the sentence. Some culprits are Bill O’Reilly, Barack Obama, and a “star” on our local PBS channel. This characteristic appears in the local man’s recorded DVDs.

Like penmanship in grade school, has public speaking disappeared from the high school curriculum? Not that these names listed belong to the younger generation; they don’t. Perhaps this is a subject O’Reilly should look into. ♠

2011-12-09T09:12:00.000-08:00

My Thursday Out, Plus

On my day out yesterday, I greeted several people who served me in the stores with a “Merry Christmas.” They all reciprocated with the same, except one. Behind a counter in the deli department in a very large supermarket, the woman glared at me and said something indistinguishable. She had a foreign accent. I kept smiling at her.

Book buying was at a minimum, only one volume, and it was for someone else.

I purchased one gorgeous pomegranate (at $1.78, I think it was). It is for a guest coming to my house tonight for dinner, my great-grandson Rocco. He is two years old. I never saw a pomegranate when I was a child. He has lived in the Middle East for a good part of his life, and he might have seen pomegranates there, but he will not likely remember them. This will be fun. Also, Rocco will bring his parents, Rob and Melissa.

People have asked me how Rocco got his name. It’s one his dad just liked. I think he met a Rocco in a book series, perhaps in the comics. You never know about my family. We sometimes do odd things. Rocco has a cousin named Philip, who in his early teens is becoming quite a scholar on World War II. And that cousin, Phil, and his family are moving to Texas from California. So, three of my grandchildren and their families will be living in Texas. That part of the clan expects to celebrate Christmas day there. Gooch will be coming from Australia for that. His wife, Shirley, has already arrived, I believe.

Another part of the clan will probably celebrate Christmas in Twin Falls, Idaho, and I’m always invited there. Sometimes I get there, but this year it is questionable. Travel is not easy for me these days.

I’m sure Susan’s three children will be home in Atlanta. Two of them live there, and the oldest will surely come from his senior year at West Point. He will know soon where the Army will post him. How I miss Susan who died in 2006.

Back to work now. ♥

2011-12-07T14:34:00.000-08:00

How a Dictator Gets Elected

He makes many speeches, tells many lies, sounds good, and throws around money to pay dummies to vote for him, even perhaps more than once. He knows most of his audience doesn’t read, or hear intelligent discussion on television programs or anywhere else, and won’t know the differenve between what he's saying and the truth. It’s that simple. ♠

2011-12-05T13:49:00.001-08:00

A Common Sense Question

Why should the press, or anyone else, believe Ginger White and not Herman Cain? ♠

2011-12-05T10:46:00.000-08:00

Citizens in Action

The weekend brought a bit more information about and insights into the qualifications and philosophies of the GOP presidential candidates. My choice I arrived at quite a long time ago, actually when he first announced, the real brain among them, with some other highly qualified candidates. But Newt Gingrich stands heads taller than the rest. Without a moment’s hesitation, he answers the questions asked and one can get a glimpse of his mental faculty. Not only does he give the correct answer, but he can add all the footnotes anyone might desire. From the beginning, I felt people would gradually pay attention to his knowledge of history and government and his common sense. I saw the figures climb till now he is ahead of the others.

One thing I heard Newt say days ago was that Rick Santorum would make an excellent Attorney General, that he is a scholar on the Constitution. Indeed, last night, during a debate on the Huckabee show, Santorum pulled a copy of the Constitution from his pocket. He’s my pick too for the Attorney General.

Last shopping day I bought Newt’s latest book, co-authored with William R. Forstchen. It is the best-seller The Battle of the Crater, a novel about the heroic black troops that fought in it, a battle most of us have likely never heard of before. But Newt’s knowledge of history is unusual, and I imagine Forstchen’s is too. I looked over the book, read the Acknowledgments and learned that no memorial exists in honor of these warriors. I’m sure these two authors will see to that, for there should be such a memorial. As I’m still reading John Grisham’s Litigators, I will finish it first, and then this Battle will be next.

Back to Newt now. Watching C-SPAN, I joined a big square-table discussion of a Professor Hart talking about the candidates with about 12 ordinary citizens. In the beginning, their choice of candidates ranged wide and diverse. At the end, Newt was the almost unanimous choice, but only one, I think, said another name, though with a hint of apology, and almost in a cover of silence. He was definitely for the two Mormons running in the race, and they didn’t get anywhere. But the sad tale erupts that these dozen citizens were not up with the news. They didn’t begin to know what I know about this, and I don’t know much. After these people left the room, another set rushed in. This was a group of journalists, and whatever, there to discuss the other set of people who had been there. This discussion was extremely dull. Professor Hart was great and the first bunch interesting. But if these first twelve were a cross section of voters, no wonder we get the wrong people into office sometimes. ♥

2011-12-04T12:43:00.000-08:00

What Followed Vail’s Letter in My Journal

“As the above letter indicates, war is being waged. The Soviets took Budapest several days ago. Five thousand refugees are to come to the United States, but I heard over the radio that 30,000 men from Budapest alone are on boxcars headed for Siberia. Many will die from exposure on the way. Tonight we heard that 40,000 more are to go. It is so terrible I can hardly write of it. On the night (night it was here) the communists took the city, John and I listened to the radio till the wee hours on Sunday morning. Reports were that the Hungarian radio operators left their stations with these words: ‘We are leaving our posts. The Russians are too near. Help us, United /states. The U. N. is too late. God save our souls.’

“It was so sad, hearing this in the night especially. Election news a few nights later, was not nearly so time-stealing.”

I have vividly recalled that night many times, as one of the worst and most important in my life—indeed in the history of the world. Those Hungarians calling for our help seemed to be shedding heart-breaking tears. I was proud, in a sense, that the Hungarians rated the ability of these United States over what the U. N. could do in a positive way. And such has always been the case. Our young people don’t learn about this sort of tragedy in their schools. Not to know history is a guarantee to repeat it. ♥

2011-12-04T12:00:00.000-08:00

The Additional Letter from Margaret Vail

“Chateau de Launay
Sigournais
Vendee
France

“November 6, 1956

“My dear Mrs. Rinard,

“Your letter of April 9 was received, and read with such great pleasure. I have been prevented, from many things from answering as soon as I should like to have done, but have not been prevented from thinking of you and your family, so far away.

“As a matter of fact, you were not as far away as this during the first three months if this year—for I was in the United States! I paid a long-hoped for, long deferred visit to my native land, leaving here just before Christmas, returning on Easter Sunday. I had not been home for seven years so you can imagine my joy at seeing my country again, and family and friends there. I went and returned by boat, disliking airplane travel intensely. This got me home a few days late for Rose-Helene’s eighteenth birthday but we celebrated that and Easter, at the same time, she being at home then for her holidays. She would have been in school, in any case, had I returned for March 22.

“Now she is in Switzerland, studying at the Interpreters’ School of the Geneva University. My husband and I drove her to Geneva early in October, spent a few days with her there, to get her happily and comfortably settled. Her letters tell us of her interest in her work—which, however, is very difficult—of her pleasures in the Swiss way of life, her fondness for the Swiss people she has met. She is continuing her studies of the three languages she already knows, but must learn a fourth before she can get a diploma from the Interpreters’ School. She may choose Russian, the most useful language to know today, she has been advised. Whether the world is at war (which we pray it will not be) or at peace, theirs is the language to know if one wants to find an interesting and useful situation. It is such a difficult language, I do not know whether if Rose-Helene could master it, but believe she will try; failing that, she will probably study German.

“Little John Lindsley Rinard has had his first birthday. Now there will be first teeth, first words, first steps to look forward to. How often I think of families without children—which are not families at all. Two people alone, a husband and wife, cannot constitute a family. What a void must be in their hearts, as well as in their lives. We learn much of life’s purpose and meaning through our children, through them comes to us much of life’s joy. They can bring sorrow, too, but knowing and facing trouble is part of understanding the meaning of life, Isn’t it? So far my only child has brought us only joy, and pride, but that may not always be so. If, one day, we should be disappointed in her, I hope I shall remember that, for eighteen years, she was all that we could hope for a daughter to be.

“But tell me about small John, and Susan; I didn’t mean to veer away from the subject of your children. I enjoyed so much hearing about your lives, knowing you and your husband through what you tell me of your daily routine. Today, you are voting, as I wish I could do—it is at times like this that I regret living so far from the country which is so near and so dear to my heart. From where I am, as I view the situation, it would seem that President Eisenhower will be re-elected. If this should be, let us hope his health will stand the strain of another four years in office. They promise to be hard years—the heart-breaking and dramatic events of the past ten days presage that. Oh, if only good could come out of all this turmoil and trouble; if only it could lead to better understanding between countries, between peoples. We must pray that those in whose hands our own small destinies lie, are given wisdom, strength, courage. At the moment, things look so very dark for us all.

“Your husband wanted to know what crops were gown on our farms. Wheat mostly; winter wheat only, no spring planting is done. Beets and cabbage are grown for fodder and food—Vendiens eat a great deal of cabbage. The farmers use oxen for plowing, there are only a few tractors in the whole Department; they talk to their beasts as they work, and give them names like ‘Springtime’ and ‘Rose Garden.’

“I had quite forgotten that I promised to send you a chapter of my new ms. I left for America soon after having written you. I can still send it, if it interests you. Write again, won’t you, when you have time, I enjoy this new acquaintance with you. Kindest thoughts and best wishes to you all.”

[Vail’s name here ]

2011-12-03T12:32:00.000-08:00

Herman Cain’s Suspension Speech

That was the verb he used: suspend. He didn’t say he was “quitting” his campaign. He’s just beginning his Plan B. I will not imitate the newspeople who tell you what he said right after you have heard him say it, but I do want to analyze his words a bit. If viewers awaited a confession of the alleged “affairs,” they were disappointed. He used the words “allegations” and “unproved.” I ask you, did you ever hear the Kennedy men confess their affairs to the public? Or LBJ? Or Jackie O.? One difference between these shenanigans and whatever Cain might have done is the fact that Cain is a Republican and the others were Democrats, as well as most reporters.

While we awaited Cain’s speech in front of his new headquarters in Atlanta, I heard a commentator actually refer to many more complaints that would be coming forth, if Cain stayed in the race! That person should be fired.

Unlike situations in which we see politicians confess their marital infidelities on live television with their wives standing beside them, looking sad and even haggard, perhaps forced to appear as if in support of such a husband, Gloria Cain stood a little farther back (perhaps she knew her husband would be throwing out his arms), smiled, and clapped her hands with her husband’s well-wishers. It appeared to be genuine support of him.

Cain was more forceful with this speech than with any other I’ve heard of his. He might be called “worked up” or even “angry.” But I really think it was a case of loss of sleep but it was a positive result. I believe this speech will go into the history books.

Cain will be announcing soon whom he will support in the presidential race. Any of the candidates would be foolish not to offer Cain a position in their government, if they are elected, but should not mention such a promise before their own success. It must not be a bribe.

I still strongly believe the concentric circles possibility I wrote about earlier is the culprit for this fiasco.♥

2011-12-01T05:25:00.000-08:00

Another Letter from M. V. Found

Early to bed and early to rise, as old Ben said. I awoke shortly after 5:00, allowing time to let my readers know about my find before I head out for the day. I had a strong feeling yesterday that I might have copied M. V.’s letters into my Journal of ever so long ago. I discovered one from 1956, but found no others. I will type it here as soon as I have time, perhaps not until after the weekend.

One reader in another country will be especially interested in this letter from M. V., but I cannot contact him. His e-mail isn’t working for me. If he is reading this, he will know he’s the one I’m referring to, and perhaps can do something about his e-mail address. My machine has said at least a dozen times “an unknown member,” yet his e-mail arrives here.

M. V.’s letter does not contain a great deal of information, but does tell when she visited the States, where her daughter is and what she is doing. She is concerned about the turmoil going on in the world, during the administration of President Eisenhower.

I really enjoy seeing the count of hits on my blog from around the world. One blog has almost 100 hits now, and others are close to that. People everywhere know English and that is great. I appreciate all of you. In this country many readers are involved with face book, but I do not care to participate in it, for it takes too much time from my writing. A writer can spread himself too thin, you know. Surely my readers would rather read a bit of fiction from me, now and then, or a book review, than to read about my daily doings. And especially read about others through my words here. ♥

2011-11-30T14:31:00.000-08:00

In Defense of Herman Cain

I just listened to the latest bit of news about Cain’s current attacker. She is doing some good acting, But I believe it is just acting. Perhaps not “just” acting. There may be a mental illness that describes what she is doing. If you listen to her carefully, you will note an abundance of repetition, told in a smooth and practiced way. The other day, I read the inscription Cain penned in a book which he autographed for her. It was a touching one. However, it might have been the same message he wrote to several dozens of people he worked with. At that moment, I envisioned her as having taken the inscription to mean more than he meant it. Many a female, especially teenagers, have fallen in love with an idea, and lived that idea for years, maybe even for the rest of their lives, and possibly ended up this way, accusing the secretly loved one, in revenge, even to the point of physical danger to the one “loved.” To speak as well as she did, she might have had a small bit of tranquilizing drug to get through it calmly. The recent telephone calls Cain made to her, if he really did, could have been to beg her not to go through with this charade.

I am not being political in this. Cain is not my choice for president, but someone else is. I am not of his race. And I still think he is a good man. Is he stupid enough not to know these affairs would arise if he ran for office? He may not be wise in many ways, but I do not think he’s stupid about the possibility of such scandal—if it were truth. I think he has worked too hard to get where he is, to risk a scandal, if it were true.

My blog about the concentric circles is still why I think this is happening. ♥

2011-11-29T21:20:00.000-08:00

Little Boys Can Say Cute Things Too

When “Gooch” was barely old enough to have a Halloween mask of his own, he was wearing it up on top of his head. Susan asked him. “Why are you wearing that thing on top of your head?”

He said, “So I can see God.” He was not yet three years old.
♥
Once Gooch hadn’t eaten the peas on his plate. I admonished him to eat them, and added, “Do you know there are little children in the world who do not have anything to eat?”

He said, “Let’s send the peas to them.”
♥
When the third child joined the family, he didn’t talk much. He didn’t need to, for his older siblings talked all the time, and he just smiled at them. But one day the family made a visit to a farm, where Mike, one year old, saw his first live chickens. Later in the week, fried chicken was on the dinner table. Mike wouldn’t eat any of it. In fact, he almost cried. I realized he was remembering the live creatures he’d seen on the farm. He said something like, “Can you put it back?” I think he meant could I put the chicken back together again.

Gooch, age three, spoke up, “All the king’s horses couldn't do that.”

I looked at Susan and shook my head no, she was not to add, “And all the king’s men.” That was just ready to pop out of her mouth.

What great kids they were.♥

2011-11-29T12:47:00.000-08:00

Three Cute Remarks from Little Girls

When our daughter was only two years old, she and I were discussing milk at the breakfast table. I told her milk came from a cow. She beamed, exclaiming, “Did the cow spit up this milk last day?” When I hesitated for an answer, she added, “Did he?”
♥
Another little girl said to her mother, “Mother, I love father, but I feel closer to you.”
“Why is that, dear?” the mother asked.
“Well, I’m your flesh and blood, but I’m related to father only by marriage.”
♥
Our daughter, still about two years of age, was playing outside with a friend in a fenced-in front yard [a river ran parallel to our road], when I heard Susan cry out. She had hurt her hand. I watched through an open window as she hurried to the steps, as if to come inside to me. Then suddenly she stopped, kissed her hand, and said, “Now, it’s all better,” and went back to play.
♥♥♥

2011-11-28T22:54:00.000-08:00

Another Word about Man’s Unconquerable Mind

In deleting letters from my files tonight, I ran across a great note from my friend Mary McKenzie. She wrote: “I began reading that book you lent me [one of several] at 4:00 Sunday, and I didn’t stop till I finished it around 10:00. You know, one time a lady gave me a book to read, and I’ve said for years it was the best book I’d ever read. But now I must say, it’s the second best book, for this one is the first best.” She was talking about Man’s Unconquerable Mind (MUM) by Gilbert Highet. My blog stats show 80 hits for my blog about MUM, which I wrote about on February 15, 2010. I wish I had time to read it again. Of course, I have read it several times, and have parts of it memorized unintentionally, but it’s good for many more reads. ♥

2011-11-23T21:23:00.000-08:00

A Question for the Media

Earlier, I mentioned I like to see a bit of intellectuality from the man in the White House. Then last night a business man in Las Vegas, Steve Wynn, in quoting Henry Kissinger, told a group of people that only two things are required from any president, intelligence and character, for he will have all around him the best brains in the business to advise him. That fits Cain.

Then a comment from Brit Hume was sort of what I had been trying to say about Cain. Hume said, in the debates, Cain talked about the topic up to an edge of his information and understanding, and then only repeated himself after that. But he said Newt Gingrich could talk in great depth on the subject, for he had always been able to do so, for he was brilliant. I agree with that. Newt is still climbing in the polls, but rough times are apparently ahead from the media.

But I want to pose a question about Gingrich, or rather about the media. We have probably all heard him say over television he is aware of his past sins, and that he has confessed them to God and has been forgiven. Then he has joined the Catholic Church and is happy and fulfilled with that experience. Now Media will be bringing up these past sins, of course, and will ignore the new man that Gingrich has found in his religion. My question to the media is: isn’t this change in Gingrich exactly what the Christian religion is about, repentance, forgiveness, and redemption? If Christ were among us today, He would likely ask, “Which of you will cast the first stone?” ♥

2011-11-22T12:59:00.000-08:00

Cain’s Book

The chief element of Herman Cain’s book This Is Herman Cain! is his confidence he will become the 45th president of these United States. When he was trying to decide to run, his wife Gloria told him she didn’t want him to run. He asked her, why not? She said, you might win! Good enough reason for a wife not to want her husband to run for the highest office in the land. He has succeeded at everything else he has tried, why wouldn’t she expect him to win in this?

And he could win. As I’ve said before, he is a good man, a patriotic man, and a conservative one. “Conservative” refers to the wish to conserve our Constitution, which others are trying to destroy, wittingly or unwittingly.

The 222-page book takes us through various jobs and positions Cain has held, while being aware of the “45” that appears in odd places, such as on his flight 1045 and hotel room, 45. He has interpreted this number in such a way to be signs of God’s will for him. And he may be right. But could not that 45 also mean he might win the office of Vice President? But Cain doesn’t feel called to be Vice anything, He’s ready for the top post.

From where I’m watching, something is missing in this scenario. I keep saying he’s a good man, and I know he’s a college graduate, but I like to see a bit more intellectuality in the person who becomes president. You read what his first grade teacher told his class, that black children were not getting the same education as white children, and his decision to work hard to succeed. That’s highly commendable, but for me, it is not enough. I want the man in the White House to be able to discuss great literature, great art, and great music, not after a night of cramming for some state visitor’s arrival, but from a lifetime of a cultured background. The humanities (literature, art, music, history, etc.) are subjects every child needs to study in school, the sooner, the better. Students, fortunate enough to continue their study of such subjects in the college of their choice while getting that degree in business, engineering, or whatever, will have a more fulfilled life.

But Mr. Cain is versed in the Holy Bible. That is a great asset and Biblical Literature is one of the humanities. And he is a good man. ♥

2011-11-22T09:29:00.000-08:00

Frying Bread

When I got to the kitchen this morning, I detected the delightful aroma of frying bread somewhere in the neighborhood. If you haven’t experienced that, take another look at the DVD of “Julie and Julia.” Early on, Julie is frying chunks of a specialty bread, as she rhapsodizes about the glory of butter. When they are golden brown, she tops them with chopped tomatoes, and we don’t see what else, but perhaps some cheese, and of course, herbs, and then she probably puts them under the broiler a few seconds. As her husband wolfs these down, he talks with his mouth full and says, “This is good!”

Such a scene makes you want to go to the kitchen and prepare the same delight. But you don’t, for you know there is no butter in the house, and you know, butter is the ingredient that makes this feast delicious.

The houses in this subdivision are well insulated. Nevertheless, cooking smells often permeate the area at least as far as to the next house. Last winter, almost every work-day evening, around 9:00, I knew someone was heating up a frozen entrée, often of turkey. I wanted to put that person into a story, with the female protagonist going out into the snow to find the poor soul who has come home after a long day’s work, and has only a frozen entrée to heat up for his supper. She wouldn’t make herself known, for after all, she doesn’t know everyone in the subdivision, and she might have some surprises. It is enough for her to know who is tantalizing her taste buds. If she should be a writer, she might even concoct more to the story: yes, while the man lets his food get cold, she may learn he is also making a bomb in his kitchen. Here, in this nice neighborhood? The suspect is a business man, owner of a hardware store! If that writer’s name is really James Patterson or Robin Cook, she will really get into trouble and may not live to get out of this house again. For a while, that is. She doesn’t get rescued; she must get herself out of this mess.

Why do readers always ask, “Where do you get your ideas?” when zillions of them are floating around in your brain? The dilemma is which to choose. (That thing in your brain is called imagination. If you don’t have tons and tons of that, you’d better get out of the kitchen.)

“Kitchen” reminds me of why I wrote this. The sense of smell is not used enough to help detect crime in our fiction. I don’t mean smells of horror—which dominate plots well enough—but ordinary odors that could inadvertently lead to the bad stuff.

Why not fry yourself some chunks of bread in butter now and see if anyone comes smelling around. You may meet someone exciting. ♥

2011-11-21T20:21:00.000-08:00

Catch-up

You read about the 45 hits this blog received before 9:00 this morning and about my prediction that number might be doubled in the afternoon. It was. Before 4:30 there were 91 hits for the day, with more time left of the day. What I want to point out is that the most popular blog today has been the one called “The 39 Steps and North by Northwest,” primarily for writers. That pleases me greatly. Some members of my writing group are creating a complete novel in the 30 days of November. I have no idea how many in the state’s several writing groups are doing that nor how many are reading my blog. I hope my writing has helped someone in their efforts.

If you haven’t seen the 2008 version of “The 39 Steps,” you’ve missed some great acting. Hitchcock made his film of that name in 1935, but this 2008 version is so much better. But then he made “North by Northwest,” as his repeat. It’s also a great one, but not quite so great as the 2008 one with Rupert Penry-Jones. ♥

2011-11-21T08:26:00.000-08:00

A Busy Monday for My Computer

What a flood of hits on today’s blog, 45 before 9:00 a. m. That may double in the afternoon.

Monday is a busy day on my computer. What gives? Are you readers checking the blog on computers at your offices? I’ve long wondered how you can tell you want to read a certain blog without first opening it. In my abundant ignorance, I’m open to ideas on this.

But plans are to get a little more less-abundant in my ignorance. I will reread Yours Is the Earth, and this time, take notes on the computer (since my handwriting is unreadable even for me these days). Then I may publish these notes onblog. That won’t be this week; it will take me awhile, but I will try to rush it a bit. ♥

2011-11-19T14:39:00.000-08:00

2011-11-16T12:10:00.000-08:00

Progress!

The worst invention of the 20th century was the telephone. That is, after the 21st tinkered with it. If you ever call a doctor’s office these days, you may agree with me. Menu after menu, often with no dish listed fitting your appetite, or perhaps hunger. So much of the patient’s time is wasted, with badly worded info, non clear numbers, and even ads. At the other end, the office feels what a great service it is doing, and the money it saves. Them. And how costly it is for the patient in time spent. So, I’m going to change all that.

When I run for president, I will promise the people that all such menus must start with the option that says, “If you need to talk with a human being, press 1.” And such calls must be taken right then, not in a call back at 5:00, when it may be too late with your situation.

I hear you cheering! I’ll expect your vote. ♥
.

2011-11-15T19:56:00.001-08:00

2011-11-11T10:15:00.000-08:00

The Latest Book I’m Reading

While I can hardly put down John Grisham’s Litigators (Darcy’s Story moves much more slowly), the new one is This Is Herman Cain! A book of only 222 pages with several family photos, it holds one’s interest, for this is a man most of us hadn’t even heard of before he got into the presidential race. And even now, the television does not tell all we might want to know about him. I’ve barely begun reading the book, but can tell you what his earliest memory is. On page 13 he says:

“My very first memories were of when my brother and I were little boys—Thurman must have been about four; I was five—and we were living in an apartment at the end of a building in what we called ‘the Projects,’ government supported housing downtown, on Gray Street . . .

“I can remember attending Gray Street Elementary School, up the street from the Projects. One day the teacher told us, ‘You are not getting the same education as white students.’ When she said that, I didn’t get mad. I just decided: Okay, I know that, but I’m still going to work as hard as I can to succeed . . .”

Like others’ first memories, this aim to succeed seems to have carried through the rest of his life. He has succeeded! Not only has he succeeded, but in several areas of activity, including business and the arts. And everyone seems to like him. He has a great sense of humor. In his recent debate with only Newt Gingrich, he began his last question to Gingrich, with “If you were elected Vice President, . . ." That brought down the house.

At this point, I still believe Herman Cain is a good man. I believe those blondes that are after him are/were paid to do that. From what source? Well, who would most desire his dropping out of the campaign? I believe that, in a situation like this, it would take concentric circles to get the job done, with impunity. And who is the current best worker of concentric circles? You decide. ♥

2011-11-07T10:24:00.000-08:00

Yesterday’s C-SPAN’s 1st Sunday Treat

Ben Mezrich was the featured guest on C-SPAN’s in-depth interview with an author yesterday. He probably could have talked another three hours about his work, as he is indeed full of it. Mezrich calls himself a cinematic writer, rather than a literary one. He doesn’t start a book unless he can envision it as a movie, not with specific actors in mind.

This program covers only nonfiction writing and while Mezrich’s books [that have sold] sound like fiction, he says every bit of them is true. This proved to be a controversial point from a caller or two, but what he writes is generally called Creative Nonfiction. The creative aspect makes the writing sound like fiction and, of course, could be exactly as it really was, and delights many readers.

Mezrich enjoys casino gambling and it seems each book may have some of that in it. Bringing down the House was the first one that sold big. His research proves to be prodigious on such topics. You can find the first page of this one on the Net, where you can get a taste of how he sends the reader to page 2 quickly. I won’t list all his books and movies here, but I want to point out three other worthwhile notes for writers.

His father insisted that the children in the family read two books a week, beginning when they were little. It didn’t take Ben long to graduate to reading many more books than the required number, a great many more. From the age of twelve he knew he wanted to be a writer. His parents were not too happy with this, but supported him his first year of trying to write.

He writes quickly, after about three months of research, and after revising a bit as he goes along, he does not edit his work. Once he wrote one paragraph of a story and sent it somewhere and received an offer of $400,000 for the story. Almost unbelievable, right? I think all that reading in childhood paid off.

Let me tell you about his sports life. He said he had never hit or caught any ball thrown to him! He is hardly ever outside, is a nut about writing. He is married and has a son, 19 months old.

I’d like to tell you more about this interview, but this is too much now. Perhaps you can locate it on Book-TV and watch the entire three hours of it. ♥

2011-11-06T17:45:00.001-08:00

The Herman Cain-Newt Gingrich Debate

Unlike two other current presidential candidates who pick at each other, Cain and Gingrich got along extremely well together with this debate. As for substance, Gingrich had the edge on Cain. He had his answers and the discussion of them without hesitation more readily than Cain did his answers and comments. Gingrich is a scholar, a historian, and a brilliant man. He knows how to be president and would have the best brains available to form his Cabinet and Staff.

Cain is a good man, I believe, and has some excellent ideas for leading the nation. However, I felt he took ideas from Gingrich along the way, ideas that Gingrich has long lived with and advocated. That only proves Cain is a fast learner. And Cain gets an A+ for humor. Gingrich gets only an A. ♥

2011-11-05T14:28:00.000-07:00

Catch-up

What a busy, hectic week I’ve just had. Workers were here at the house Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, and I was out all day—till about 7:00 p. m.—on Thursday. But I did manage to read a little before I retired at night. 10th Anniversary is finished, as well as The Terrorist Next Door and A Point in Time. Other reading continues. I have added two other books to the stack, both in progress. One is john Grisham’s The Litigators and the other is Janet Klymer’s Darcy’s Story. There’s more to say about them later.

For family news, let me tell you son Gooch and his wife Shirley were in a car wreck a few days ago in Australia (not their fault). She was bruised enough to be in the hospital and he broke his left wrist. I saw a picture of them there. She was in a bed and he was sitting beside the bed, showing off his bandaged wrist and hand, both smiling big.

My second son, Mike, called me this morning just as I was about to eat my breakfast egg, around 10:15. He knew about the wreck in Australia and he said, in essence, “One of these days we are going to get news that someone n the family wasn’t so fortunate.” How that breaks my heart just hearing it said. I hope they are all good drivers and I know they don’t drink or take illicit drugs. But the other driver on the road? That’s another story.

Grandson Rob hurt his ankle playing volley ball and yesterday he said the problem has gone into his shin. He’s the one who is six feet, seven inches tall, and who played basketball all the way through college. The first four years, that is. He is planning to go to Australia in the near future (and his wife and Rocco), where he will work and also study on his master’s degree.

So far as I can tell, the rest of the family is doing all right. I am still receiving the antibiotic in my left eye and Doc reported the hemorrhage has lessened and he says the vision is better. You could not prove that by me.

Phase 1 of my kitchen remodeling is now done. This week, the floor got its new vinyl, a historic pattern, black and white squares on the diagonal, covering a length of 28 feet without a seam. The chandelier over the dining area was moved over about three feet and the table is more centrally located than it had been. I read in a new magazine last evening, “The kitchen is where everyone lives, why not make it fabulous?” Well, “fab” doesn’t exactly fit mine, but I’m on my way.♥

2011-11-05T11:37:00.000-07:00

2011-10-29T12:13:00.000-07:00

A Point in Time

David Horowitz’s new book, A Point in Time, has only 128 pages, but it may be his most important work. In three chapters, dated October 2006, November 2008, and December 2010, he follows the book’s subtitle, The Search of Redemption in This Life and the Next; however, I will need to read certain sections again before I understand fully if he concludes with the answers sought. Sometimes, as I read a nonfictional volume such as this, I get sidetracked by the beauty of language and Horowitz is an expert at this artistry. But that is what a meditation should do—elucidate the discussion with the beauty of language.

Throughout, Horowitz ponders his own life span, as he falls prey to diabetes (Type 2), cancer, and problems of his heart, in addition to the shock of the sudden death of a daughter. He builds a swimming pool for his health, but then moves into another house. This new location has room for his wife’s horse, as well as his umpteen dogs who accompany him on his daily walks.

But the author discusses Marcus Aurelius, especially with regard to his own father, and moves on to the works of Dostoevsky and ends with the Requiem Mass of Mozart. This post is not to be as long as Horowitz’s book itself, but I want to mention that the discussion on Dostoevsky touched my memory veins. Not everyone has plowed through The Brother Karamazov, but I did, many ears ago. Not only that, but my students saw the film version of it. I remember watching it every hour it was shown for several days, year after year, and I’ve never tired of it. I watched it again about a month ago. Not exactly like the book, the basic philosophy is nearly the same. The most important idea I hoped my students realized to their cores was enacted in a courtroom scene. Ivan Karamazov, a journalist in Moscow, and self-admitted atheist, finally understands on the witness stand, that if there is a devil, there must be a God too. Horowitz does not quote such simple wisdom in his work, but the gist of what he does say is close.

Horowitz writes as if he is old and might die tomorrow. I am older than he. We share some coincidences in our lives, including physical ailments, but a more important one is that he writes beautifully and I appreciate reading what he writes. I have seen him many times on television and heard him talk about this book on C-SPAN before I bought it. (I have a habit of doing that.)

I think Horowitz believes his people, the Jews, face another colossal tragedy, even in America. The handwriting is on the wall. Horowitz is a friend of Erick Stakelbeck and, of course, would have read the latter’s The Terrorist Next Door. I anticipate that with his taking care of his health, Horowitz will live to write many more good books. ♥

2011-10-24T14:31:00.000-07:00

From the Horse’s Mouth

I must quote a bit from the book The Terrorist Next Door for you. On pages 186-187, the author sits down to talk with “a former terrorist operative….Today, [that man] speaks out forcefully against jihadist ideology. He has written about what transpired in his life as he adopted the jihadi mindset and was conditioned by adherents of Islam’s Salafi sect to accept violence:

“I passed through three psychological stages to reach this level of comfort with death: hatred of non-Muslims or dissenting Muslims; suppression of my conscience; and acceptance of violence in the service of Allah….

“…Once I was able to suppress my conscience, I was open to accepting violence without guilt …One Salafi method of generating this crucial attitude is to encourage violence
against women, a first step in developing a brutal mentality.”

This doesn’t need comment from me. Read the book! ♥

2011-10-24T12:12:00.000-07:00

About My Facebook

In case I can’t reach everyone through e-mail, let me tell you here, I’ve decided not to do Facebook. I do not have time for it. I can’t understand how a writer has that kind of time. It’s great for posting photos of your family’s doings, but I would not be adding pictures to mine, I have the camera, but am not adept with it. My fingers are too old, I suspect.

Too, I did not care for Facebook’s practice of sending out letters over my name. Some people were not addressed properly as I would have done. And I’ve heard a report from a highly reputable source that one’s info is not 100% private. I know you can hear otherwise, but just one reliable source that it’s not “safe,” is enough. I would not put anything in it that I would want to keep private, of course, as I suppose most of you agree.

However, my blog is checked by multiple sources. I expect that and I don’t mind. That’s their job (and then someone posts it elsewhere). For example, under Henry Kissinger’s name, you may see the reference to what I wrote about him. Fine with me. For all I know, one blog reader in Russia may be Putin himself, watching what this person who thinks for herself has to say about things, including politics. He hopes to be top-dog again in Russia with the next election, you know. Maybe he has my name on some list of “marked targets.” And maybe you’ll find this blog under his name too. It really is a small world these days. ♥

2011-10-24T09:34:00.000-07:00

A Good One for the writers Among You

In Henry Kissinger’s Acknowledgments in his new book, he lists numerous editors and/or assistant editors, secretaries, librarians, et al, and finally gets around to his wife, who read some of the chapters. Then, in case, one wonders about their day-to-day living with this baby On China, he says, on page 23, “Solitude authors (or at least this author) generate around themselves when writing.” Many authors probably have not reached this level of opportunity because of children at home, or an unsympathetic spouse, and perhaps haven’t started their own magnum opus. But this is excellent advice for those who can manage it. Living alone is not enough. Someone has to do the chores, call in needed workers for repairs or whatever, pay the gardener, and answer the phone, for the business of living can interfere with the art of living, the work of a solitude author. But wouldn’t that be a great day to be free to be a solitude author and write your magnum opus?

By the way, Kissinger says he’s been to China more than fifty times. I remember reading, early on in their marriage his wife was learning to cook with Julia Child’s cookbook. They did/do entertain in their home, but it must be between books. Good luck, writers! ♥

2011-10-23T11:02:00.000-07:00

My Current Reading

As you’ve read here before, my reading contains several books at the same time. Some books were postponed while I fretted about my eye problem. But reading with a strong magnifying glass with a light on it is not too bad. Unlike reading on the Nook, it is much easier to check back to a certain section and make notes. I want to talk about a book I am not reading, but got a free look at. It was too, too disappointing to read title page, publication info, Table of Contents, Dedication, Acknowledgments, the author’s Preface or Introduction—you see, I can’t easily look back to see which it was, but the exact title for this section does not matter—and then, at last, only one or two pages of the book itself. So far, I do not wish to purchase it on my Nook. Not enough there to tempt me. This tease of a book is Kissinger’s On China. I saw his interview about it on C-SPAN and it sounded interesting. Perhaps it is. If I have a good chance to do so, I may look over the real book at Barnes and Noble and then decide if I want to purchase it.

In the meantime, I am near the end of The Terrorist Next Door by Erick Stakelbeck, a short book, only 226 pages of text. The Lantern-Bearers, essays by Robert Louis Stevenson, is underway. Ann Coulter’s Demonic is also underway. The volume that is really moving along fast is 10th Anniversary by James Patterson, not his latest offering, but one I’ve had for a good while. It is rather large print and the chapters are extremely short. I like both of those characteristics in a mystery story. And, not to come up short for reading material, I’ve added to the stack, The Roald Dahl Omnibus, Perfect Bedtime Stories for Sleepless Nights. The latter contains 682 pages. I’ll be awake for a while for that one.

Now. I need to finish Terrorist and 10th Anniversary this weekend. See you later. ♥

2011-10-23T00:09:00.000-07:00

Addendum

I saw the candidates a second time tonight and they were all there and spoke and answered certain questions. Each one gave such a good speech: Cain, Bachman, Perry, Paul, Gingrich, and Santorum. I wanted to vote for each one of them. Santorum was last and I kept watching for I wanted to get the exact title of Karen Santorum’s book. It’s Letters to Gabriel. Now it’s after 1:00, time to read a bit. Tomorrow, perhaps I’ll tell you what books I’m currently reading. ♥

2011-10-22T20:36:00.000-07:00

Presidential Candidates in Iowa Tonight

I tuned in late to C-SPAN tonight and missed the first speech, which was from Newt Gingrich. I’m sure it was excellent. He’s brilliant. Ron Paul was next and he did a great job too. Third was Rick Santorum, former U. S. Senator from Pennsylvania. What a speech he gave! He made me cry, telling about the baby he and his wife lost. If everyone could hear him tell that story, America would surely have fewer abortions.

After the loss, Karen Santorum, the Senator’s wife, wrote letters to the baby. Eventually, they became a small book. I think the title is Letters to Our Baby. Only 2,500 copies were published, and so, it would be difficult to find a copy. It made me think of you, Marsha and Jake, with your loss—our family’s loss—of little Johnny.

A good-sized crowd attended this forum, many more men than women, not always the case. These people seemed to be the salt of the earth, and they hung around a long tine to talk with the candidates. I repeat what I said in an earlier blog: Rick Santorum seems to have the ideal family for living in the White House. ♥

2011-10-22T13:43:00.000-07:00

More about France, Particularly Paris

The first book I read on my new Nook was The Greater Journey, Americans in Paris, by David McCullough, whom I saw on C-SPAN in the interview about the book. McCullough is an excellent writer who does a great deal of research for a book. He said he could have written several more books with this research. In April of 2008 I particularly enjoyed his John Adams, quite a sizable tome. The Greater Journey wasn’t quite so challenging. In fact, it was easy to read.

These Americans in Paris were, first of all, in the early 1800’s, medical students. Before anesthesia was used, French doctors excelled at cutting, off or out, parts of the body without evidence of concern for the patient. They went from patient to patient without even washing their hands! When the doctors checked patients in large wards of many beds in close proximity, as many as 100 students crowded around to observe. One student once climbed on the doctor’s back to get a look. The doctor shook him off.

One advantage for the American medical students in Paris was that they could study the ailments of women, whereas an American woman wouldn’t let a male doctor see her body. One woman declared she’d rather die than be examined by a male doctor. And she did die.

My great, great uncle, John Berrien Lindsley, was one of these medical students studying in Paris. But I can’t believe he did so without sympathetic concern for patients. He came from a religious home that was humanitarian in its outlook. In the latter years of the1800’s, Berrien was credited for ridding the South of cholera and founding the first Public Health program in the country.

Overlapping the time medicine drew foreigners to Paris, the Louvre did too. Artists came from various countries to copy paintings in the Louvre, in an effort to learn more about their chosen field of work. They numbered too many to mention them all here, but I will talk about one American who had never, at that time, lived in America, John Singer Sargent. When he was just a young man, other artists who watched him paint declared him a genius early on. This might have been why he was: McCullough narrates that Sargent’s earliest memory was his seeing a cobblestone of a bright red hue that fascinated him when his nurse took him out for his daily airing as a mere baby. This baby was not quite so mere as most, it seems, for he remembered the red cobblestone and thought about it all the time, apparently. Each day he begged the nurse to show it to him again. This must have been in Italy, for the cobblestone was at an address with a “Via” in it. As some of you might have guessed by now, of course, I added this story to my essay about earliest memories in this blog. I love the red cobblestone story.

Much more happened in this book than things medical and artistic. I believe there must not be any bloody war scenes anywhere as in this volume. I heartily recommend it to all those interested in medicine or art or war. ♥

2011-10-22T08:32:00.000-07:00

News from a Great Grandson

Below is part of a letter from a great grandson of mine, named Philip. It truly delights me to hear he’s taken up story-writing. He is also a student of World War II, a thought that engages my interest favorably too. Read what he says.

“Hello, Grandma, this is Phil. I really enjoyed the World War II story you sent me. I was just looking for a good World War II story when you sent it.

“I am currently writing a story about slavery set from the 1600’s to the 1800’s. History is my favorite subject. I enjoy writing as well.”

Roald Dahl wrote an excellent WWII story that I will send Phil. It’s called “Beware of the Dog.” Or perhaps he can find it at the public library near his house. I once read something like the fact that Dahl wrote numerous short stories which he sent to American magazines [he was British] and they readily bought them. Many readers probably think he wrote only about chocolate for children. Not so. “Beware of the Dog" is one of the best stories I’ve ever read and some of my English classes read it too. It was also produced on film, but no dog was in it. I recall this version used the Angelus instead of the dog—I think because American readers don’t often know French. I have a thick book of Dahl’s stories, which I’ve not got around to reading yet. But I will, for it is big print. In another blog I’ll write about the latest book I read on my Nook. ♥

2011-10-10T15:13:00.000-07:00

Here It Is

Let me alert you to the following. This story has gone through contests in two separate statewide competitions, several years apart. One gave me no award whatever and the other gave me First Prize. I hope you enjoy it.♥

TO SAVE A BRIDGE

It began at midnight yesterday. The long-awaited invasion of Europe by the Allies was underway. Weather conditions on the c0ast proved unfavorable for troop conveys to land without the scheduled full moon. But General Eisenhower took his staff meteorologist’s recommendation and proceeded with the invasion. To our amazement, the Nazi soldiers in the Loire Valley left our streets and rushed to Normandy. News spread like wildfire and eased our war-weariness to an extent: we heard it was the beginning of the end. I wrote it all down, as papa taught me to do—and to write and read, indeed to think—like an adult, before he left for war, against a time like this.

Hitler ordered the destruction of all the wine-producing châteaux in France. Château Vougeot is not so large and well known as Mouton-Rothschild, and not one of those tourists drive out from Paris to see, but we have our good years. Hitler isn’t punishing us for putting best labels on poorest wine we were forced to send to German troops fighting in Russia. He can’t know that. No, this latest order is predicated on his diabolical bent to destroy all things French except what he stole. This means especially the wine industry, as precious to us French as the art treasures in the Louvre. I learned of his objective in time to try to save our château.

Yesterday, before hearing of the invasion, I attended my first Résistance meeting, which included just the leader and me. Though he said I was so young—my being a girl didn't matter—I learned how to plant a land mine encased in wood. Then shortly after noon when we saw châteaux in the distance go up in flames, it was time to plant those mines.

The fires formed something of a lopsided circle, and were closing in, sneaking along in the underbrush as well as reaching for the heavens. Our château, larger than the others in this area, might be last, as a sort of climax perhaps. It is the first château on the main road, just one mile from the bridge, and after us, the enemy could make a laughing exit.

With so many trees about, no one saw me move bricks and bury two land mines close together just a few yards inside our front gate, on the route the Nazi soldiers always used when they rang our doorbell. It was far enough inside the courtyard that any friend who might arrive would still bear to the right, heading for the east entry, and be safe as usual. But we expected no friends to call. They had houses to protect. Afterwards in the kitchen I deliberately cut my left hand. I see that as foolish now, but at the time I thought, how could anyone suspect me of planting mines if I had an injured hand? Mama bandaged it but she didn't know about the mines or about the deliberate cutting. We females have to cope, for our men folk are away fighting the war or doing slave labor and starving to death in prison camps. When my brother Henri turned sixteen, away at school in England, French Intelligence grabbed him up for training. Mama keeps our wine business going with the help of my six-year-old brother Jacques and me, and occasionally neighbors. But without copper sulfate it's impossible to keep fungus out of the vineyards. Much effort has gone into planting a garden—mostly parsnips and turnips—to feed us and as many others as we can. How we could use Henri now, but we haven't heard from him in over three months.

Now Jacques and I hide among the vines, where Mama sends us, with bread, cheese, and inferior grapes wrapped in a damp cloth, and in my good hand my father’s leather portfolio of valuable papers. We find two other children here and their mothers, women who have worked for us when we could afford to pay them and who have no vineyards of their own. Some still work for us without pay other than a noon meal, such as it is. We daily go about our work, hoping to avoid being picked off by Nazi soldiers at target practice.

Jacques and I are short enough not to have to crouch among the vines as the adults do. We know to keep still and quiet when the situation demands it, but my hand hurts and I find being still difficult with both a bandaged hand and the portfolio to protect. I forget my discomfort, however, when we see smoke billowing from the village church, a building used these days only for peasant weddings, though it is not big enough to hold the crowd. This is a heart-breaking blow, for our family has taken care of it since the early 1700’s.

Jacques and I relocate ourselves some distance from the château, closer to the edge of our property, almost directly across the road from the church. A short distance from the church is an open car, signifying the Nazis’ presence. We witness the top of the bell tower fall, leaving the bell held up by the four corner posts of the tower, it reverberating with a plangent chime once as burning wood crashes against it. The bell eventually gets so hot it turns red as we watch, so strange, like a bell on a Christmas card. Then we espy four soldiers, and hear them laugh with bravado, as all of them relieve themselves into the fire. I imagine they joke about trying to put out the blaze.

The one who struts around as if in charge of the others keeps repeating the word schnell, which means quick or hurry, I know, but I do not know what die Brücke means. French children do not study German in school, but Papa says that is a mistake, that we need to know the language of the enemy. I agree with Papa.

Finally the Nazi soldiers leave, driving away from us. They must be saving our house till last, for it is so near and yet they drive elsewhere. We watch the fire for a long time, until the old structure with its ten pews is no more. Only one part is left standing, seemingly not burned at all. Strange, when the rest of the building burned so quickly.

Before we are back with the others hiding in the vines, I see by a trace of moonlight those same four soldiers return in their open car and stop at our front gate. They never have driven right up to the door; even when it rained. I think they like to hear their hobnailed boots pound our brick, in step with each other, as if they paraded before their Führer himself or were bent on his command, as was apparently the case now. They do not notice the disturbed bricks as they march toward the château forty feet away.

A few minutes before, I was a child. Now I grow up. I think of Papa and Henri. If I were a German officer, would it cross my mind that a French prisoner was someone's father and therefore spare his life? That's exactly what I think about these four Nazis. They are each probably someone's father, certainly someone's son. Guilt overwhelms and tortures me for my brutal action to be undone.

But it is too late, even if I knew what to do. The mines explode, leaving voices and hobnailed boots silent on an eerie parade ground. I cry out in agony on my knees, pressing my bloody bandaged hand into the soil to punish myself. I have killed a human being, not just one, but four. Jacques does not see what happened but as he puts his arms around my neck, I feel his little body twist around to look for the source of the big noise. I try to concentrate on the irritation of the knapsack of bread and cheese bobbing against my back. I cling to him, trying to hold back my tears, as we move forward into the vines, looking for Mama.

No one has seen her all evening.

I think of the difference between soldiers killing soldiers at war and a child killing soldiers as I’d done. War is not a child's duty, but that is what the Résistance is about. I console myself with the thought I might have saved Mama's life as well as the château. (As I write this now, I know eight French citizens, all friends of ours, burned to death in their homes last night.)

I stumble and drop the portfolio. My hands shake as I grasp at posts and miss, almost falling, and even at vines to try to stop the shaking. The silence among the women and children is unreal.

Hours pass as we wait for something to happen other than the new putrid smell among the smoke. Nothing does, except in the semi-darkness I realize my bandage has a dark spot. Blood. Soiled blood. As my eyes linger on it, it seems to grow. Blood covers my hand. It transfixes me and I soon fall asleep.

As dawn breaks, the women move about in a surreal tableau like eager spirits gathering up the dead before daylight catches them at it. They sweep up bits of uniforms and ignite the pile, its odd-smelling smoke becoming part of the already polluted air. Two women salvage four Luger pistols from the shrubs, apparently thrown from the blast unscathed. Strange, I think, but I know nothing about firearms. Other women get the car down the road and into a ravine. A boy, hardly older than Jacques, siphons out almost a full tank of petrol.

With difficulty I remove traces of my part of the tragedy, though no one seems to connect me with the event. Perhaps the bandaged hand has done its job. Some women replace the broken bricks with whole ones from over the courtyard and pour cherished Cabernet Franc Red over the wide-spattered -blood on the bricks and swab them down, anticipating a uniform redness. I keep wondering where Mama is.

At last everyone leaves our property to see about their own houses, most of them small cottages. Survivors from the burned châteaux will be back tonight to sleep at ours. I must help get everything ready for that. Jacques and I go into the house.

Mama does not appear. I search all the rooms in the part of the château still in use. On the floor near the front entry, leaning against the baseboard, rests a homemade gun. Afraid to touch it, I nevertheless pick it up and stow it in a closet, out of sight, wondering what Mama had in mind for it. The Résistance leader told me people had such guns but never said who had them.

With sinking heart, I replace the portfolio of valuable papers in Papa's cabinet in his study, and secure its key in its hiding place. I give Jacques the last of the cheese and grapes and tuck him into bed. How much of his composure is fear and dread, and how much is bravery, I can’t determine. Covering him with his favorite red blanket, I see my hands of the same color moving about. All is blood, my heart cries. I stand outside his door until I hear the sound of a child sleeping. Then, unable to hold back my tears, I make my way along the road toward the church that is no longer there. Perhaps it will still offer refuge.

This night, which seems not over though it is a new day, I witness the making of history important to my family, the destruction of this church. An ancestor of my great, great grandfather, the first Vougeot in the Loire Valley, built the church of storybook design in the seventeenth century. As I near the rubble with some charred slabs of wood still burning, Mama rises from the low stone wall surrounding the churchyard and comes toward me.

"Cherie, oh my cherie, I got four of them with just one shot!"

She is shaking in a frightful way, her teeth clattering, even with the heat of the fire still around her on a warm night. It shocks me to see her wearing her best dress, a crimson silk she bought in Paris. Yes, she would want to look her best if she were shot dead or captured by the enemy. How long has she been here?

"I thought of Charles and my Henri and I just shot them, four of them with one shot!"

I don’t like her laughter or her huge glassy eyes. I wonder at her need to come to the church after killing the enemy so happily. She is proud of what she has done; perhaps her prayers are those of thanksgiving.

"Man maman, let's go home."

"Where is Jacques?"

"He's asleep, man maman. He was so tired. He didn't see anything except the fires. Come home now and I'll fix you breakfast. We'll share that last egg.”

"What the war has done to you, my Rose-Hélène! Here you are, not yet fourteen, leading your old mother as if she were blind or crazy."

She stops walking. "Four of them!" Ordinarily she would never call herself old.

"Hush, man maman. Come along. You need food and rest.”

"Suddenly she throws back her head and yells, as if to the world, "Four with one shot! I saw them coming! Coming to destroy us."

She bursts into tears. I hug her, twice bigger than I.

How much of the truth should Mama hear? Would knowing everything cure what seems to be a new problem? From now on, would I be taking care of her? I hug her a little tighter. Surely Papa would be home soon but in what condition? Maybe I'd be caring for both of them.

At least I save our house and thousands of bottles of our best wine, sealed up behind a brick wall, hidden from the Nazis. Some people will probably claim me a hero, if they ever discover the truth, but I decline and don't admit anything. I’m just another French patriot out of millions. I won't let myself become a hero, or a pacifist either. We have seen too much of that at Vichy. Our once-loved Marshal Petain is even now accused of treason. Yesterday I would have been afraid to write this down, but today it seems safe, for the war must be almost over. The Germans have more important missions than to return to this part of the Loire Valley to finish off one château.

As we begin the trek back to the house, I see the church bell now lying among the ashes. I must get Monsieur LeMaine to retrieve it, for its replacement in the new church when the time comes. We pass the confessional, not burned at all. We stop. Light plays up in old-style French an inscription on the rough-hewn relic: This confessional is for anyone at anytime but especially for a Vougeot with a great sin. A chill envelops me. I reach out my bandaged hand to the confessional to promise my return to it, priest or no priest. Even a few of them have turned into collaborators.

Back at the house, Mama cleans and redresses my wounded hand with not a shadow of mental aberration showing on her beautiful face. We share the fried egg and days-old brioche. I will be more satisfied with her condition when she changes into her everyday work attire.

Later this morning, while mama sleeps, with her crimson dress hanging in its proper place in her armoire, the women feed eighteen local refugees in our kitchen. I slip out of the house and walk to the church ruins again, to talk directly with God this time.

I kneel before the inscription with the crackling and popping of dying fire sounding all around me. I confess my sin of taking human life and know forgiveness as I have never known it in my short life. When I rise to my feet, a ray of sunlight shines through the valley's smoke, settling on the strip of wood where the inscription was a few minutes before. It is no longer there. It lasted just long enough for me, I reason.

After a few hours of fitful sleep, I return once more to the burn only to find the confessional itself is now ashes. But something wonderful will replace it in our lives. When we rebuild the church, I will insist on the same inscription on the confessional, especially for a Vougeot with a great sin.

I stand in the middle of the road for a time, looking toward the bridge, as if to see Papa and Henri coming home. But of course, the smoke over the valley is too thick to see anything in the distance. But the bridge must still be there. Perhaps I—
Yes—it strikes me—that must be what die Brücke means, the bridge! They meant to destroy the bridge, once they had crossed to the other side. Awe-stricken by a deed I was not aware of doing at the time, I wonder about forgiveness while saving a bridge. I need to talk with Papa.

Mixed joy and sorrow envelop me as I return to the house, to finish writing the story of this day. I am not sure I like being an adult. But one thing is certain: I will never be the same person as before.

On the front step I look around. Toward the east the air has cleared a bit and through an intervale I would ordinarily miss noticing, I witness blue sky just waiting to spread over this valley. It will be difficult to realize the war still goes on.

2011-10-10T14:18:00.000-07:00

2011-10-09T18:42:00.000-07:00

A Note till Tomorrow

Some of you have probably been looking forward to my promised story or stories. I have not forgotten. I have had to be away from the computer too much lately. I hope sincerely to have some freedom in that respect tomorrow. But here is my first-prize winning poem.

THE SCENT OF SUMMER©

Between the meadow
and the ditch
I dig asparagus, as wind
wafts over planted fields,
encircling cathedral spires
(that some call pines).
I scent twice-turned earth
as sweet as new-cut hay
so fresh, so brief,
one could miss knowing
the thrill, the joy,
of all this. ♥

2011-10-02T12:01:00.000-07:00

What a Lovely Day It Is, but Isn’t Every Day that Way?

No news overnight, of course. However, I’m not sitting here, just taking chair space. I am busy writing something all the time. Currently I’m checking over past writings for possibly sending them out to some national contests, actually international contests, for some subscribers for the magazine reside in other countries. The items in mind I have never sent anywhere till now. It will take months to know the result of such contests, but one must be patient. Let me add here, three requirements are necessary to succeed at this sort of contest. One is patience after you send out your manuscript. Don’t watch the kettle come to a boil. Another is awareness that there is always someone who writes better than you. And the third one is the necessity to stay busy. Begin a new story, or finish the one already started. Patience, awareness, and necessity, in this order, begin with PAN. Get accustomed to the word PAN. Make it your mantra. Don’t reverse it and take a nap. Stay busy with writing.

While I’m busy at this project, I write little on the current novel or my nonfiction book, write just enough to keep in touch. But the stories for any contest will go out and it will be back to the other. Of course, we’ll also soon know the topics for next year’s League contests, and they will take priority.

(What I can’t understand are those would-be writers to say they don’t know what to write about. While they don’t have ideas, I don’t have time.)

As you start a new writing project, remember what David McCullough said was the third aspect of writing: thinking. I’m sure he didn’t intend it comes third in the doing, I’d say second. This is the order I pose them for myself: research, thinking, and actual writing. Of course, one thinks all the time he’s researching and making notes, and while writing. But during the thinking process, an author is concerned with such things as how to start the magnum opus or what to tell when. I like my idea of writing something first and then deciding where it goes. But you must decide which method is best for you. ♥

2011-09-29T21:55:00.000-07:00

Another Late Bulletin

Late last night I had an e-mail that said my contest submissions would be here either Friday or Saturday. The lady had put them in a big envelope and then had forgotten them. She also wrote that I had won a second and a third place, and she thought a first place. But I don’t know which ones placed where yet. ♥

2011-09-28T13:40:00.000-07:00

Late Bulletin

Well, Jake, the packet with my submissions has not yet arrived in the mail. No explanations, but I suppose the lady must be busy with more important stuff. Maybe she hates to show me I did not win anything. However, I keep busy, working on next year’s stories.

But I haven’t given up all hope, of course. Tomorrow I should be out all day and if it comes then, I will not know about it until about 6:00, for I have an appointment at 4:00 with my eye doctor, and then grocery shopping last. But, Jake, thanks for being interested in this project. I’ll let you know a.s.a.p. ♥

2011-09-26T12:42:00.000-07:00

The Latest

Word has come that my contest submissions will arrive in the mail, tomorrow presumably. But the e-mail had an interesting additional point. The secretary/editor of the chapter says she will be coming to visit me in a dew weeks and will bring another member with her, one I have not yet met. (Gosh, that means I will have to clean the house! And have some goodies ready. I knew there would be a nice side to this. Feed your guests and perhaps they will forget you do not make sense.)

But I want to tell those of you who missed it yesterday, David McCullough spoke at the Charlotte, N. C., book fair, about his new book, The Greater Journey: Americans in Paris. As always, McCullough was a delight to listen to. His whole speech delighted many, of course, but some of it was especially good for writers to hear, if not all of it. When someone in the Q&A period asked him if he spent more time in research or in actual writing, he answered we must not forget a third step in the process—thinking. How timely! I had recently discovered the benefit of being dressed for bed and sitting a while in almost darkness, in say, the living room, a room you do not sleep in, or a garden room, or even just outside if no one disturbs you, and letting all the thinking of the day flush out of your mind BEFORE you try to sleep. Settle there, without slouching, and hash out the next thing for the latest plot, if you must, and then clear your mind of it completely. I sit with my back to a dimly lit lamp and study the geometric designs it makes on the ceiling and walls, the identical design every night. That helps me to rid myself of plot intrigues, and all the day’s activities, and sleep comes more easily.

I certainly plan to buy McCullough’s new book for my Nook. ♥

2011-09-24T15:13:00.001-07:00

Herman Cain

Herman Cain has today won the Republican Straw Vote in Florida. I am delighted. He is a brilliant man and as far as I can tell, has always had an excellent, even a perfect, answer to his questioners. With his background in business, he would be like a fresh breeze in the White House. He would also get the black vote, as well as many white votes. He has a good chance to win the nomination. ♥

2011-09-24T13:03:00.000-07:00

An Exciting Day

Today is my birthday. I am only twelve years from being 100. I do not usually list gifts for any occasion, but I will this time. They included the Nook I’ve already mentioned, a gift certificate for a “case” to hold the Nook (I think it has another name, but I haven’t learned that yet), two kinds of Russell Stover sugar-free chocolates, pictures of some of my grandchildren, two lovely inspirational books, and I was treated to lunch a few days earlier.

Another one I hope to receive is some award from the Idaho Writers Conference that ends tonight in Pocatello. That is not a birthday present, of course, but it occurs today. What better time? I have already promised to let you know about that when I know.

As a child, I was not much on the receiving end of the gift line. I was the middle child and never indulged. Many are like this, and some never get over it. I did get over it. In fact, I hardly realized it happened at the time. I saw through all that sort of thing only as a married woman. I realized it, understood why, and proceeded to forget it. It was not going to rule my life and it hasn’t. But perhaps one good result of it is that I love to give presents. I think one does that when one has gotten over the middle-child-syndrome.

And to top off the day, C-SPAN 2 is doing its usual weekend of authors’ talking about their new books with some brief interviews. I often want to buy the new book in review, but no longer. Nook will get it, if anything. I’ll buy it that way and that’s not the same thing. How I love the feel and look of real books, and the smell of leather-backed ones. If two generations of my family would remain stateside, they would get most of those gems from my shelves, but they keep moving from continent to continent, or from state to state.

But some special volumes I will not let go, even if I cannot read them again. I can hold them in my hands and relive the story from memory. Think of the millions of people who cannot do that. ♥

2011-09-23T14:33:00.000-07:00

Catching Up

What a wonderful day! I slept till 9:00 this morning, having gone to sleep last night at11:00. That is 10 hours! But it had been a long and tiring day out yesterday. The extra chores included getting a flu shot at a supermarket, and verifying that the book I most wanted to read on my new Nook, Barnes and Nobel doesn’t offer in its millions of books available to a Nooker. It is The Lantern-Bearers, essays, by Robert Louis Stevenson. I own the actual book, which I bought from B&N, but it’s one I haven’t read. I would hate to pay to read all the books I own but haven’t read yet That would be double jeopardy.

I am finishing with a strong magnifying glass, one book started before the latest attack on my eyesight. It was past halfway read and I can handle only a couple of pages at a time, for something more important beckons, like last night’s presidential debate. I don’t intend to review that now, but I do want to point out a great speech Israeli Prime Minister Netanyahu gave before the United Nations. I hope to make a copy of it. Its key sentence, in my opinion, was that the UN is “a theatre of the absurd.” What a perfect description of it! He illustrated how it was that. It will probably rerun tonight on some news channel. I hope none of you will miss this important speech. ♥

2011-09-09T13:50:00.001-07:00

Maugham and French Literature

Somerset Maugham (1874-1965), British playwright, novelist, essayist, and short story writer, opted to live in France, in fact, on the French Riviera. In his nonfiction Points of View, the last book he wrote (1958) he praises the French for their eloquent literature and suggests a possible reason for it: the French do not have many children. I wonder if Maugham checked out the number of children the great Russian writers of the 19th century had.

Well, I checked, and learned the Russian quiver did not contain many arrows. Some of those great writers did not marry; one had a child by a serf. But Tolstoy had 13 children, 10 of whom survived infancy. And it’s Tolstoy whom the world credits for writing the best novel ever written, War and Peace. Most of these writers had dreadful childhoods and wrote about that subject in their fiction.

Therefore, Maugham might have been right in praising the French for their eloquent prose. But I proffer this question: Can’t a low population of a civilized country get too low, for, as an example, in time of war? ♥

2011-09-08T10:34:00.000-07:00

The Candidates

I am talking about the Republican candidates for the presidency. What a large group of them are currently campaigning. If the Democrats are so unhappy with the man they put into the White House, why don’t they come up with a new candidate among their party? What is wrong with the man in the first place that he has become so unpopular? Let’s see.

He promised change. He never explained what changes he would make. So, the gullible public concluded they would be changes for the better. However, I can’t be the only one who saw through him. I knew his changes would be for the worse. Many people now say that everything he has done was just the opposite of what he should have done. The latest straw seems to be his decision to leave only 3,000 of our troops in Afghanistan after the end of this year, not only against the advice of the military leaders involved, but also against the wish and hope of the Afghans. Of course, he never consults Congress in matters of war. Or anything else, as a matter of fact. So, with this problem and the sick economy, which Republican candidate can possibly make it better?

Many of them have baggage they could do without. I won’t go into that. But who looks good at this point? The governor of Texas, Rick Perry, looks much like Ronald Reagan. As I watch him, I think he uses that resemblance to the hilt. That is a bad habit. He is not Reagan. This candidate has difficulty holding his face still so that one can study it. Character and more should appear there. Substance wise, he has not proved himself yet. He may be spending too much time before mirrors. He might have accomplished great things for Texas, but the country is different territory.

John Bolton talks well and I agree with what he says, but he was once Ambassador to the United Nations. Perhaps he was there to make it a better organization but it will go against him with millions of voters.

The smartest one in the line-up is Newt Gingrich. There probably is nothing in American history that he does not know and can expound on at length, if asked. (He knows much about other countries as well.) But intellectuals do not always make good politicians. Many are saying he does not have a chance, but at least he can continue writing good books that the winner can learn from.

Some voters are afraid of Mitt Romney’s religion, as if he would turn us all into Mormons. Remember when the first Catholic got into office, how many thought he would go by the church’s edicts instead of America’s. He did not, so far as I was aware. He was very busy doing other things.

Rick Santorum has many plusses for office, most notably strong patriotism, a two-term senate experience, his timely book It Takes a Family, a White House-quality family of his own, and I have heard nothing against him.

I just looked at the list of candidates and found several I had not heard of. I think for the day the above is enough to talk about. I may continue this.♥

2011-09-07T13:27:00.001-07:00

Why and How

One last blog about Margaret Vail (until I think of another one). In case anyone is curious about my reason for contacting Vail in the first place and how I did so, you can find out by reading my blog for February 17, 2010. It received five comments from unknown readers that pleased me greatly. I recall another came later in the year but I have not had time to locate it yet. I offer this suggestion for you, for the comments were quite touching. ♥

2011-09-06T10:05:00.000-07:00

TURNING THE NEXT CORNER

What a beautiful day! The air is perfect and it’s great to be outside. I’ve not blogged for a few days, taking a long holiday weekend. Now I have much to catch up on. If I owe you a letter, I’ll get to it soon. However, I must take time to thank all the viewers from Canada, Australia, France, and a few ether countries, but these mentioned here really stacked up the hits for me. Some days, Canada outdid the United States, and I’m talking about like nearly 70, day after day! What a boost to my morale. And Australia topped the list yesterday. I can’t imagine only my family there did all those hits.

Now perhaps it’s time to get to anther subject. The state’s writers’ conference is just 18 days away and I won’t be there. But a couple or so days afterwards, my submissions will come back to me and I can read what the judges wrote about them. I am anticipating placing in some contest or other. One might interest those readers who showed spectacular interest in the Margaret Vail blogs, for the setting of my story is the Loire Valley and the time is D-Day, 1944. My young heroine doesn’t know it’s called D-Day, for it began the night before and she has no access to the news. She rather misguidedly seems to think the war is about over, though she will find it goes on a while longer. I suppose I should add that story to my blog. It’s over 3,200 words long, and if that’s too much reading for you, I’ll understand. I wrote it several years ago, but have reworked it. Now it’s better for that. ♥

2011-08-31T15:07:00.001-07:00

Hello, in France

Several readers of this blog are located in France. It would be very nice if someone there who has information of the past or present owners of the Chateau de Launay in Sigournais in Vendee, would contact me. Margaret Vail, who was Madame Robert de Launay, wrote a book called Yours Is the Earth in 1944 and many who appreciated that book, are interested to know what more happened to the family after that book told the story. We know Robert came home from wartime prison camp and later the daughter Rose-Helene lived and worked in Geneva, Switzerland. Do any of you know where Rose-Helene lives today? What happened with regard to the chateau? Did Rose-Helene inherit it and did she ever return there to live?

Many years ago Margaret Vail and I had a correspondence which ended with her health problems. She had a stroke around 1962. Many admirers of Margaret Vail have tried to make connection with someone who has some answers, for 67 years. I do not read French, but you most likely can write English, or you would not be reading this now. Do let me hear from you. Thank you most kindly. Lindsley Rinard ♥♥♥

2011-08-30T15:36:00.000-07:00

Margaret Vail’s Entire Chapter from her Unfinished Book

(Note: At the request of a reader [see one of my Blogs dated August 28] I am copying here Vail’s chapter in its entirety which I only excerpted for you earlier. As some of you know, I hunt and peck at a keyboard (I opted for Latin rather than typing in high school with no regrets). Add to my typing skill my recently worsened eyesight, and the fact that, like Margaret Vail, I have suffered a stroke. However, my stroke was not nearly so severe as hers. It is now 4:18 p. m., and I will tell you that other than doing the necessities, such as eating lunch and walking out in the sunshine to check for mail, I have been at this computer since about 8:30 a. m., checking and rechecking, with a really strong magnifying glass, to make a correct copy for you. I consider it a labor of love for all those who appreciated Margaret Vail. I will read all of this later on its blue background and make corrections if there are any. There must be. I’m only human. Enjoy!) ♥
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The Complete “Prisoner’s Return” from Margaret Vail’s Unfinished Novel

In early May, we awaited news from Robert, of whom nothing had been heard. Every day, we would learn of the return of one or more of Serigne prisoners of war; those of us who were waiting for news would congratulate the wives and mothers who had their loved ones with them once more; without a trace of resentment in our hearts that others should be favored while we still had no cause for rejoicing.

On the morning of May 16, our telephone rang. “Un telegram, Madame.” And it was read to me: “RETURNED FRANCE GOOD HEALTH WAIT IMMINENT ARRIVAL ROBERT”

Down the two flights of stairs to the kitchen I ran, headlong, to fling myself, into Veronique’s arms. “Oh, Veronique, he is coming, Monsieur Robert; he is alive, he is well, he is in France, he is on his way home, he will soon be here, he . . . I . . . we . . .”

Veronique, hysterical too, began rushing around the kitchen, tears streaming down her cheeks. “We must have all kinds of good things to eat for him,” she sobbed, picking up one thing here, casting it down there, searching frantically for she knew not what.

Rose-Helene, less excited, of course, was happy all the same to know that she would soon have a Papa after living most of her life without one. All the rest of that day we waited for news which did not come. We studied maps and time tables, trying to imagine where he might be at that moment, and at what time, on that day, he could arrive.

No one cared much about eating that day nor about sleep that evening as I discovered when I went up to bed around eleven o’clock. I tried for a while, to read, but soon found that, too, was impossible. I decided then to wash my hair, the great feminine resource in times of stress. That would help the time to pass and I would look more attractive for Robert if he should arrive the next day.

It was 1:00 a. m. I was pinning the last curl – and the telephone rang! Our service is always shut from 7 p. m. until 7 a.m., it can never be used during those hours, so I knew, even before I scrambled to answer the telephone that it was something urgent, something out of the ordinary – something to do with Robert.

The local telephone operator (whose husband, also a war prisoner not yet returned) was calling to say that the Mairie of St. Emilion had telephoned to ask whether Madame deVigney could come to get her husband who had just arrived there.

Could I come! During the past years, long years, lonely years, the conviction that, one day, this moment would arrive was what had given me courage to carry on. How many thousands of times had I asked myself when, when, when would he return? How many times had I wondered where our first meeting would take place? Now I had my answer. When? In the time it would take to tie a gay scarf around my wet head, get the car and drive the eight miles which separated us. Where? St. Emilion where, five years before, I had had my first sight of German troops arriving to occupy our region. Now it was a French officer who awaited me there.

To the severe thunderstorm I gave little heed as I drove towards Montigny, as fast as I dared drive through the torrential rain. The vivid flashes of lightning and sharp claps of thunder would have frightened me, normally, but now the thunder was only the echo of my own heartbeat, and the lightning a mere reflection of the blaze of my excitement.

I had supposed that I was the only person in the village awake at that hour, except the telephone operator, but mine was not the only call she had made, I soon saw for, when I arrived at Montigny, the outline of several figures appeared at the front of my car. One or two of these signaled to me to stop, a command I was tempted not to heed untill I saw M. le Cure was at the head of the group of men.

Slowing down the car, I leaned out of the window to hear what M. le cure was saying: “. . . so I am sending Georges, here, with you to show you where the prisoners are assembled.”

As though I could get lost in a tiny village like St. Emilion! As though I wouldn’t be able to find, without anyone’s help, my husband wherever he might be! And, naturally, I did not want to share with anyone, Robert’s and my first meeting. “You are so kind, M. le Cure, so thoughtful, but, truly, I do not want to impose on Georges. There is no reason for him to take that long drive to St, Emilion in this pouring rain. I assure you that I can find M. Robert by myself.”

But the Cure was insistent; as awkward in his kind intentions as so many well-meaning people too often are. Besides, a Cure could not be expected to understand wives’ and husbands’ wanting to be alone together at such a time. So, to avoid wasting precious minutes in futile argument, I told Georges to hop into the car beside me and off we drove to St. Emilion.

That town, usually so placid and quiet, was in an uproar. The noise and confusion was centered on the Place in front of the Mairie. There, the two big buses, loaded to capacity, had deposited men who had returned from five years’ captivity. Some of them had already been found by wives and mothers; some were holding sleepy, bewildered children who had never known or could not remember the men in whose arms they now were. In a group apart stood those who were still waiting to be called for.

The little square was illuminated only by the lights which shone from the windows of the Mairie and by those of my car, which shimmered through the rain. This gave the scene an unearthly quality, the people were phantoms; shadowy forms without identity. Only the noise – of sobs which were laughter, of laughter which tore at one’s heart, of gay music (to which some were dancing) – only this noise gave evidence that this was, indeed, real, and not a dream or a product of one’s imagination. The scene was sublime, transcending the ghostlike figures moving about in it. One could not fail to realize the deep spiritual significance of the human drama and feel a grateful humility at being privileged to witness and take part in it. Nor could one fail to give thanks to Him who had brought us all to safely to this place, to this moment, Who had made possible all that was happening there that night.

I remained in the car, unable to do more than stare at the scene I knew would remain forever engraved on my memory. Georges had served a useful purpose, after all; he had gone off to find the person I now saw coming towards the car.

It was not necessary to see my husband’s face to know that this was he. The touch of his hand on mine was the same; the voice was his. Of me he could see little, huddled behind the wheel of the car; the dim light revealed only the bright scarf around my head and the fact that my face was wet, whether from the rain or from tears, he could not know.

Georges remained off at a distance until we called to him and told him to squeeze into the little car beside us. He was lucky that we did not forget him, leaving him to spend the rest of the night there in St. Emilion.

It was difficult to concentrate on keeping the tiny car on the slippery road in the face of the torrent of rain and flaws of wind which shook it; what I wanted to do was give all my attention to Robert and what he was saying.

He had been traveling, he said, for eight days and nights in one of those forty-men-and-eight-horses affairs, he told us (us! Poor Georges had not been more de trop in all his life); there had been only a brief stop in Paris where certain formalities had to be gone through before the men could continue their journeys. One of the volunteer workers at the center to which Robert was assigned, had been a friend in those days, oh so many years ago, when young men went to dances and teas in Paris. He told her he had been without news of me for several months, but the last he had heard from me I was living in Washington with our little girl. He wondered whether he might find us at L’Ormeau when he got back—it was with this hope that he had sent me a telegram from the frontier.

Oh no, the lady said, it was not possible that Robert’s wife and child could have returned because Americans were not yet allowed to return to France. The lady feared it might be several months before he would see us.

Robert was inclined to doubt this. “You don’t know Margot,” he told her. “She promised me, you see, if ever she should be obliged to leave France, she would manage to get back in time to welcome me home. Margot usually finds a way to keep her promises.” We smiled at each other there in the darkness of the car. Smiled at the absurdity of his confidence in Margot, at the absurdity of Margot’s promising such a thing. Smiled because he and Margot had been right and the lady was wrong.

I told Robert I was glad he could not see me because I had just put my hair up in pin curls and I looked awful. Robert told me he was glad I could not see him for he had not been able to shave or wash for more than a week and he had never looked nor felt so repellant.

It was nearly two o’clock when we arrived at our little village where we intended to ease Georges out of the car and go on to L’Ormeau. But, in the middle of the road there was a large crowd, obviously waiting for us, waiting to welcome Monsieur Robert back to Montigny—quite unmindful of the rain which had already drenched them. We had to get out of the car, shake hands all around, acknowledge congratulations. Robert answered questions and even made an impromptu speech when he was presented with an enormous bouquet which had been prepared for him while we were in St. Emilion. Bon soir was finally said and we were free to go home. Before the chateau, we found Veronique, Charles and Marie waiting for us. I took the flowers from Robert that Veronique might take their place in his arms. She stood on tiptoe to kiss her beloved master for whose safe return she had prayed night and morning during all these past years. Affectionate greetings for old Charles, Marie was presented and at last we went into the house.

As we stood looking at each other in the big hall, a sudden bolt of lightning put out all the lights in the house! Groping, we found candles which lighted our way upstairs to our room. Then I heard a sleepy little voice murmuring, “Mama, what is everybody talking about in the middle of the night?”

I went in to Rose-Helene. “It is papa, darling. He is here, your papa. He has come home.”

Robert stepped forward to take the nightgowned figure (already standing up in bed) in his arms. Quietly, I set the candle on a table and softly went back into our room, letting father and daughter have their moment.

2011-08-29T14:27:00.000-07:00

LAST LETTER FROM MARGARET VAIL

July 2, 1963

I must reply very briefly to your letter of June 3, but to write only a few lines requires a greater effort than what my doctor wants me to make. I am and have been very ill, had stroke for nearly a year. My intellectual life, reading, writing, have stopped entirely and I must rest most of the time.

My daughter, Rose-Helene, is living and working in Geneva, Switzerland, where she is very well and very happy. So it will be impossible for you to see her when you are in New York.

I congratulate you for this opportunity that has come your way and am sure you will make the most of it. I am glad to hear your family is well and flourishing, and send you my best wishes for your continued and certainly well deserved well-being and happiness.

Yours very sincerely,
G.[indecipherable] de Launay
_____________

The name too difficult to read seems to begin with a large upper case “P,” but it also could be an upper case “S.” Several strokes of her pen follow, that could be six or seven letters without a “T” crossing or an “I” dotting. Dots serve as both periods and commas. So it seems, Rose-Helene could have been working for the U. N. in its Geneva offices. ♥

.

2011-08-28T12:51:00.001-07:00

A TINY REVIEW

The readers of Yours Is the Earth did not know necessarily why Robert de Launay became a prisoner of the Germans. Perhaps he was just one of a group of soldiers taken together, or it could have been the Nazis knew exactly who he was, a member of the French landed gentry. At one point, Margaret raised the American flag at L’Ormeau, to protect the chateau from takeover for Nazi offices. America, of course, was not in the war at that time.

Vail’s writing in the above chapter, designed to go into her novel, does not show the same quality of writing found in her nonfiction book. Writing a novel demands a different capability—not harder—just different. Her novel had not gone through an editor’s scrutiny while my guess is the published book had quite a busy relationship with the blue pencil. The novel excerpt contains an overabundant use of the Passive Voice, a definite no-no to an editor. But Vail had an exceptionally timely and interesting story to tell and the editor took the gamble. The winner in that gamble included every reader of the story Yours Is the Earth. ♥

2011-08-28T09:13:00.000-07:00

PRISONER’S RETURN

That is the title of Margaret Vail’s chapter. The first words are “In early May.” D-Day occurred May 6, 1944, the beginning of the end, and so Margaret and her little daughter were back in France early in May of 1945. The formal surrender by Germany occurred on May 9, 1945. Setting the prisoners-of-war free began immediately. Americans could not travel to Europe at that time, but Margaret had a French passport and her husband was French.

Germany had taken one million, eight hundred thousand (1,800,000) French prisoners, while France had taken many less from Germany. It took a while to get the prisoners returned to their respective cities and villages. Robert was not one of the first local prisoners to arrive home. But Margaret knew he could be home in a day or two. She wanted to be pretty for him, so she washed her hair. She had just pinned up the last curl of her wet hair at one o’clock in the morning, when the telephone rang. The chateau’s telephone service was shut off from 7:00 p. m., to 7:00 a. m., so this ring meant “urgent.”

The local telephone operator, whose husband was also a prisoner not returned yet, called to say the Mairie of St. Emilion had called to ask if Margaret could come to get her husband who had just arrived there. Come she could! She had waited long years for this news. She tied a colorful headscarf on her wet head, got the car, and headed for St. Emilion in lightning, thunder, and torrential rain, as she termed it. At Montigny, she had to stop the car to hear M. le Cure tell her to take Georges with her the rest of the way to show her where the prisoners were. Margaret did not like this idea, but the le Cure was insistent. Georges hopped in beside her.

St. Emilion was in an uproar, with illumination only by lights from inside the Mairie and from Margaret’s car lights. A row of men waited to be called.

Margaret wrote: “I remained in the car unable to do more than stare at the scene I knew would remain forever engraved on my memory. Georges had served a useful purpose, after all; he had gone off to find the person I now saw coming towards the car.

“It was not necessary to see my husband’s face to know that this was he. The touch of his hand on mine was the same; the voice was his. Of me he could see little, huddled behind the wheel of the car; the dim light revealed only the bright scarf around my head and the fact that my face was wet, whether from the rain or from tears, he could not know.

“Georges remained off at a distance until we called to him and told him to squeeze into the little car besides us. He was lucky that we did not forget him, leaving him to spend the rest of the night there in St. Emilion.

“It was difficult to concentrate on keeping the tiny car on the slippery road in the face of the torrent of rain and flaws of wind which shook it; what I wanted to do was give all my attention to Robert and what he was saying.

“He had been traveling, he said, for eight days and nights in one of those forty-men-and-eight-horses affairs, he told us . . . there had been only a brief stop in Paris where certain formalities had to be gone through before the men could continue their journeys. . . . the last he had heard from me I was living in Washington with our little girl. He wondered whether he might find us at L’Ormeau when he got back—it was with this hope that he had sent me a telegram from the frontier. . . .

“I told Robert I was glad he could not see me because I had just put my hair up in pin curls and I looked awful. Robert told me he was glad I could not see him for he had not been able to shave or wash for more than a week and he had never looked nor felt so repellant.

“It was nearly two o’clock when we arrived at our little village where we intended to ease Georges out of the car and go on to L’Ormeau. But, in the middle of the road there was a large crowd, obviously waiting for us, waiting to welcome Monsieur Robert back to Montigny—quite unmindful of the rain which had already drenched them. We had to get out of the car, shake hands all around, acknowledge congratulations. Robert answered questions and even made an impromptu speech when he was presented with an enormous bouquet which had been prepared for him while we were in St. Emilion. Bon soir was finally said and we were free to go home. Before the chateau, we found Veronique, Charles and Marie waiting for us. I took the flowers from Robert that Veronique might take their place in his arms. She stood on tiptoe to kiss her beloved master for whose safe return she had prayed night and morning during all these past years. Affectionate greetings for old Charles, Marie was presented and at last we went into the house.

“As we stood looking at each other in the big hall, a sudden bolt of lightning put out all the lights in the house! Groping, we found candles which lighted our way upstairs to our room. Then I heard a sleepy little voice murmuring, ‘Mama, what is everybody talking about in the middle of the night?’

“I went in to Rose-Helene. ‘It is papa, darling. He is here, your papa. He has come home.’

“Robert stepped forward to take the nightgowned figure (already standing up in bed) in his arms. Quietly, I set the candle on a table and softly went back into our room, letting father and daughter have their moment.

.

2011-08-27T09:53:00.001-07:00

AFTER DAYS OF HEAT

After 100-degree heat, we have a respite of sorts. It is balmy here with the breezes. I wonder how the animals are doing. Are they seeking refuge from some impending disaster in this part of the country? The television runs, repeating the same thing most of the time about the eastern part of the country. How sad I am for those people. One of the saddest persons to me was a black woman who said something like, “Well, we have to go sometime; it might as well be now.” She probably had no place to go and reconciled her situation to that dictum. I sincerely hope she relocated herself safely. Thousands must have no place to go. She was on the young side, much to live for, as everyone has.

A day for a little sleep, since I didn’t get much of that last night. I got in bed about three times, and tried two different recliners. It was well after 4:00 before I did sleep and awoke around 6:00. I need to be in the middle of some manuscript moving along. Nothing major going at the moment.

Talking about sleep makes me even sleepier. See you later.

♥

2011-08-26T06:43:00.001-07:00

IN THE GAP

I expect today to be a busy one without much opportunity for writing anything, but I do want to add to the current topic a bit more. When there is time, I hope to copy a few paragraphs giving details of Robert de Launay’s actual homecoming, but at this time, a bit more about Rose-Helene’s growing up.

She learned and spoke both English and French from hearing her parents use them. We do not know about her schooling, but at some point, she picked up a third language. It might have been Italian, for we know it was not German or Russian. She wanted to work as an interpreter at the United Nations, but when she applied for such a position, learned she had to master a fourth language for the job. Vail hinted at no great desire of Rose-Helene’s studying Russian. I do not know if she ever did take up a fourth language or if she actually worked for the UN, but she did land in New York, as the above letter from Vail verifies.

I have often wondered if Rose-Helene inherited the family estate, known as L’Ormeau in the book, but really Chateau de Launay. She seems to have been Robert and Margaret’s only child. According to the Internet, some of the chateaus became hotels. Margaret sent me a snapshot of the four-story L’Ormeau set back from the camera position with a vast lawn.

Time now for breakfast.

♥

2011-08-24T14:13:00.000-07:00

ONE LETTER FROM MARGARET VAIL

The following letter is exactly as MV wrote it. As it is my property, I am free to make such a copy. I could not scan it. I hunted and pecked. I do not know how I can get the chapter into this blog. Perhaps my computer tech can show me how. I have not found the letters she wrote to me before this one, but found her last one. It is in almost indecipherable longhand. Enjoy!

Chateau de Launay
Sigournais
Vendee
France
March 23, 1960

My dear Mrs. Rinard,

I have not forgotten, I never have forgotten that I promised to send you the enclosed excerpt from my book. And, as I said in the article. “Margot usually finds a way to keep her promises.” I have been rather long in keeping this one, but I always intended to do so.

First, I was so very ill, having been stricken with a vascular cerebral hemorrhage which could have been much more serious than it finally proved to be. However, it kept me on a chaise longue for months, unable to use my typewriter, obliged to rest, rest, rest.

Then, in May, (after an unexpected and unnecessary bout with pneumonia) I went to America to spend a few months with Rose Helene, to consult doctors there. I was in New York City, did almost no traveling – only to Baltimore and to Washington to visit friends there; I lived quietly and peacefully with Rose-Helene in an apartment loaned us by friends who went away for the entire summer.

Before I returned to France, in November, I agreed to write a novel for Doubleday’s, not under contract, but at their request. That is to say, they asked me to try my hand at writing a novel for them but they are not obligated to accept it. I have worked very hard ever since my return, spending eight hours every day at my typewriter and I have finished about 300 pages which are now in Doubleday’s hands. It is not certain, it is not at all certain, that they will accept the ms., even with re-writing provisions. They may reject it, and I am prepared for a rejection. I shall finish the book, nevertheless – it is about two thirds done – and my agent will submit the ms., probably, to Lippincott [publisher of YITE] before trying other editors.

That is why I have written no letters this winter, but most of my friends know what I’m doing, and understand that one cannot write letters and a book as well. However, the enclosed chapter will be fitted into my book somewhere so I thought I would get it written, send a copy to you – thus keeping my promise to you while not wasting precious time doing it.

I wonder how you and your nice little family are, what new and absorbing occupations you have found. You sound such an interesting family, so typically American, nice American, and I am very glad you wrote me and gave me a glimpse of your life.

You do forgive me, don’t you, for having taken so long to send you this piece? And for not making this letter any longer? I must get back to work. With kindest thoughts and very best wishes, for you, your husband and babies, I am

Very sincerely yours,
G. [undistinguishable] de Launay

2011-08-24T09:12:00.001-07:00

RETURN TO Yours Is the Earth

For all of you who enjoyed Margaret Vail’s story about her life in occupied France, I have good news. I have located two letters from her and a copy of the chapter about Robert’s homecoming in the unpublished sequel. It will take me awhile to get these items ready for onblog posting. Be patient and it will happen.

♥

2011-08-23T21:27:00.000-07:00

SOMEONE ASKED ME

My doctor’s nurse tells me I’m still 5 feet, 6 inches tall and weigh 129 pounds. Therefore, the pants I’ve been wearing for a while must have gotten too long because of the weight lost, not height lost. Someone asked me recently how I did it. I’m not really on a diet, but I eat wisely. For example, I eat only one starchy food per meal.

If every over-weight person in this country ate by only this rule for reducing weight, what a lot of tonnage we would rid ourselves of. Here’s a partial list of foods not to mix in the same meal: bread, potatoes, rice, pasta, green peas, dried beans (as in chili), oatmeal. There are others, but these are foods we eat regularly. Skip the “rice and beans” and “peas and potatoes” dishes and try turkey bacon with your oatmeal.

As exercise, I ride a stationary bike in two 15-minute segments a day. In addition, I’m always reaching for something on the top shelf. I mean often. And then I keep two 3-pound weights beside the chair I watch television from and “work out” with them on the commercials. I exercise my legs and arms before I get out of bed in the morning, and occasionally when doing kitchen work. Now I need a whole new wardrobe.

♥

2011-08-23T12:02:00.001-07:00

CONFIRMATION OF A GUESS

A few days ago, I began writing a story that I assumed would be book-length eventually. But it got hardly more than a difficult first paragraph on paper when I sacrificed it to delete control. It took another day for me to remember when I experienced writing from the point of view of an anticipated murderer once before that it too did not work. How did Dostoevsky accomplish it?

The whole book was not to be from such a point of view, only just the first chapter. It was a device to keep the reader guessing whodunit. I suppose it’s a good sign when an author cannot think just the way a would-be murderer thinks. However, since other innocent souls have managed it, no one knows when or in what given work I might succeed. (It was not to be a story about murder, but about betrayal, repentance, and forgiveness. The murder was the vehicle to lead to the three more important elements. Remember this is fiction.)

♥

2011-08-23T09:58:00.000-07:00

THIS CAME AS AN E-MAIL TODAY

Disgusted with NBC

On the Today Show, Matt Lauer interviewed one of the wives of one of the Navy Seals killed in the recent helicopter tragedy. He asked her what she would say to her children about their dad and how she would want them to remember him. She said, (and I quote) "His love for Christ," and then continued with a few other things. Throughout the day and on the MSN homepage, when the story was replayed, they had edited the "Love of Christ" part out.

Why? Because using the word “Christ” might offend someone? Well, I am a Christian and I am offended. Offended that they would edit it out. Offended that we as Christians are asked to tread lightly so as not to offend someone of another religion!

I think anyone who missed the original broadcast should know what NBC has done. This man loved his country and loved his God and gave his life for both, just as Christ gave His life for him.

Please feel free to copy this and forward it to everyone on your e-mail list. There are e-mails that go around saying "If you believe in God," then forward this. Well, I am starting one right here, right now. I am not ashamed of God but I am becoming more ashamed of my country. It is time to take a stand.

The will of GOD will never take you where the grace of God will not protect you.
"Our task everyday is to learn how to love better."

IMAGINE THREE HEARTS HERE.

2011-08-23T09:37:00.000-07:00

PINK and YELLOW

In just a few days, I am going to have a birthday, my 30th again, I think. Unusual for me to hint for a gift, I am going to hint or even beg for one now from my readers, especially some of my best friends. I know you are reading me, but hey, why not do me the favor and sign up for my blog. You know, you can use any sort of picture—or even just a head—and any name you wish. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Now something you may find surprising and quite unimportant to you: my study is branching out, taking up two rooms instead of one. However, it will take some weeks for the job to be completed. When it’s time to read a manuscript, I will leave the yellow room and go into the pink room to read in a more comfortable chair with an ottoman. Yellow and pink, someone might question. Yes, historically, these colors together, from every shade of true pale pink to true red, with true yellow have been the most popular combination in interior design. I do not care about current trends in decorating a room or a house. And neither room has television capability. Isn’t that wonderful?

♥

2011-08-20T13:43:00.000-07:00

THE DOCTOR”S ASSISTANT

During the eye examination on Tuesday, Dr. Harf spoke in soft terms, naming what he found concerning my eye. The assistant wrote it all down. After he left the room, she told me she had been my student in humanities. What a lovely surprise. She was a beautiful girl and I asked if she were married. She had been and, a greater surprise, she had a 21-year-old son and was herself a grandmother. She appeared college age. How old I felt, thinking most of the time I am running around a campus myself.

She told about visiting an art museum in Amsterdam, where a large painting of a seascape she had seen a picture of in my class made quite an impression on her. She thought the artist’s name might have begun with an “R.” I did not think it was Renoir. The only artist’s name for a seascape that I recalled showing the class was one by Winslow Homer. At least, his name ends with an “R.”

Then she told my driver, who was with me, that I had been a good teacher and added, “She was hard.” That is about the best compliment a high school English teacher can hear, that she was hard.

♥

2011-08-19T18:25:00.001-07:00

For You Beginning Writers

Recently I wrote a paper about meeting my fictional characters, not creating them. Afterwards, I had an additional thought that should have introduced the article. Here is its essence in case anyone out there s having trouble trying to create their own characters: fix your mind on the fact that the world all around you is full of imaginary characters. Don’t waste time trying to look them over for they aren’t there. Just instantly see the one you are going to write about. Let him show up, without your knowing anything about him and get acquainted with him as you write. Perhaps he arrives on the scene by opening a door and there he is. Learn about him gradually.

And by all means, don’t be guilty of saying “him or her.” Writers should know “political correctness” is not good taste. Write for future generations, not for a whim. It will sink you. Stick to tradition.

♥

2011-08-12T09:18:00.000-07:00

The Latest Event Here

About four years ago, my right eye, the better one, hemorrhaged. Since then, the left eye has been doing my writing, including these blogs. Then on Wednesday, two days ago, I awoke with seeing a rosy glow in the lower left corner of any window of sunshine and on the stainless steel flatware as I removed it from the dishwasher. (The spoons looked like Christmas ornaments.) My retina specialist just happens to be in Boise on Thursday afternoons and had a spot for me late in the day. The bad news is that my writing eye has hemorrhaged too. The good news is that on Tuesday he will give me a shot right into the eye, that he says will let me continue my writing. Don’t worry, the area will be numb for this procedure. He has done thousands of these treatments.

However, my vision is better this morning. I am typing with font size 16 (on the processor), rather than 20 bold needed yesterday. I tested that then, but did not really write anything. But there’s a great blog coming up soon, about Dr. Harf’s assistant who is filling in this summer, while the regular assistant took the summer off. The new girl (not new to the clinic, of course) turned out to be a former student of mine in humanities, as well as sophomore English. Two years of me! There’s more about her soon. But today the window-cleaning man is to come out at 11:00 and this afternoon, the new pantry is to be installed. I must ride my bicycle before they show up.

♥

2011-08-07T13:15:00.001-07:00

Ann Coulter

The brilliant and controversial Ann Coulter is the guest author on the three-hour interview on Book TV on C-SPAN today. The program will likely air again tonight. I recommend it strongly. Most of the callers were male, and men do seem to like her, perhaps for her long blond hair, perhaps for her talking sense.

All of her books, eight or nine in number, have been bestsellers. How many writers can you say that about? We have met a few here onblog: Dick Francis and P. D. James, for example. But theirs were fiction. Coulter’s writing is nonfiction with numerous footnotes. She does a great deal of research. You can read about her on the Net and you can watch the show, but I want to point out one thing she said [not verbatim]: if you are a Christian, you are not afraid to speak out about what is wrong. She and her two older brothers grew up in a Christian family and she is grateful for that. She is a lawyer but now writes full time, books and a weekly column. She has a condo in New York and a house in Florida. She has never married, but has been engaged a few times. She is the classic example of a woman too smart for almost any man. Give her a listen.

♥

2011-08-06T10:12:00.000-07:00

EARLIEST MEMORIES AND WHAT THEY MEAN

When the late Vincent Price introduces the “Mystery” Channel movie “Sleeping Murder” based on the thriller by Agatha Christie, he explains that the author’s earliest childhood memory is that of her third birthday party. An unexpected guest joins the celebration, a huge spider hovering over the tea table adorned with flowers and cake. Price says Christie’s fiction is like this, evil popping up among pleasant surroundings. Christie also showed an emphasis in houses in her stories, and Price says the one in this film is much like the house little Agatha grew up in. I always delight in hearing Price describe these characteristics of Christie’s writing for they are also prominent in most of my writings, not that I compare myself with her or with any other writer. I do not even consider her a good writer, but she proves herself an excellent plotter. We can easily forget the stories, except those we see on film repeatedly, which make excellent entertainment. However, earliest childhood memories have become such a special interest of mine, I want to know everyone’s first memory and tell what I have learned about the phenomenon.

After years of its standing on my bookshelf, unread, I finally got around to the volume called Unlocking the Secrets of Your Childhood Memories by Dr. Kevin Leman and Randy Carlson, published in 1989. The authors are psychologists and if there is any field fiction writers should be knowledgeable in, it is psychology. We need to know why our characters act as they do.

Leman and Carlson maintain—and they have proved so to me—that the earliest memories of a person’s life, and especially the accompanying emotion, dominate the rest of that person’s life. Here is a hypothetical example of such a dominating emotion that may possibly prevail a lifetime. That is, if law enforcement does not apprehend the one with the memory who is repeating that memory. However, a psychologist such as Leman or Carlson may become first responders.

This man, Tim let us say, is twenty-eight years old, married, and has a three-year-old son named Joey. Tim has begun to beat Joey and gradually more harshly as time goes by. Then he hears Dr. Leman on a talk show explaining that men beat their children for their fathers beat them when they were little. Tim recalls his own father’s beating him from an early age, as Joey at his age now. However, he turns off the set and delays doing anything about his problem. In fact, he may not call it a problem. Most of us probably have not met any real case as serious as Tim’s but occasionally we hear of such situations in the news, usually when the police get into the picture. I will leave such stories for the television and concentrate on some actual ones.

As I research this subject on a small scale, I explain that the memory must be one that the person shares with no one else; it must be his own. I usually start by asking what the memory was and then ask the person’s age when he experienced it. Although I did not ask this particular person but only read about her memory, the late famed artist Georgia O’Keeffe claimed a memory dating back to age two. She remembered bright colors on her coverlet. Perhaps that amounted to emotion that guided her life for she certainly painted her oversize flower masterpieces in brilliant colors.

If you can believe a child remembers something she saw at age two, you can believe another child can remember something that happened at twenty months, another at eighteen months, then one year, even six months, younger—really? Unbelievably, someone has written he remembers being born. When you understand his possibly high I.Q., you may believe that has something to do with it. Some experts say I. Q. has nothing to do with it, for he has not developed one yet. Could he not have been learning during those prior nine months? This subject says he saw the big light overhead and he felt the pain of actually being born. I read this from Ray Bradbury who was not writing science fiction at the time. You can find this information on the Internet.

Age three seems to be a popular time for waking up to memory; however, many children’s first memory occurs when they start first grade, an event that must be traumatic for them. Leman and Carlson tell about a girl who admitted she remembered nothing before her senior prom. Such a memory lack must indicate she suffered trauma of the greatest severity.

Sometimes a person fakes a younger age for his first memory apparently to practice one-upmanship. The key to that is the lack of emotion. If someone regales us with a funny or scary tale and then shows no emotion and the telling is like a recitation, I do not believe him. Not only should emotion figure in the telling, but also some hesitation in at least the first telling.

A female, aged a young sixty-four years of age, told this story. She was three years old when she saw her mother leaving the house and she wondered if her mother would return. She did, but not soon, I gather. Eventually I asked what emotional effect that had upon her. She thought a minute and then said, “It left me with an insecurity that has always been with me.” Perhaps because of that, she has had four marriages and divorces, and several affairs. She may be seeking security and never finding it.

Another woman had a more positive memory, she remembers sitting on her grandfather’s lap and smelling peppermints. She seems today a happy, well-adjusted personality with her life right on track to wherever she is going.

One amused herself when she was possibly not yet three, by lifting the eye patches the doctor had placed over her eyes and looking at cartoons. She is a fun-loving person today.

One man amused his audience with his earliest memory of his watching a worker at a building site who checked the electric power with a short cord and witnessed a light bulb turn on. As the man hurried away to the next checkpoint, the little boy, age three, picked up a nail and stuck it into the wall socket, to see if it would turn on a light bulb. He found out, all right, got a good shock, and grew up with reasonable fear of electricity. He did not choose to become an electrical engineer but opted for civil engineering.

Another man offered to tell his earliest memory, but I did not expect much, for it was obvious he did not understand what a single event just for him consisted of. While shrugging his shoulders, he told only about playing with his friends and being happy without demonstrating any emotion or any example of fun at play. I wonder what sort of bedtime story he heard at age three. Even a Bible story could resound with a sky of angels as they flew about rescuing the tiny child from danger as he went to sleep. But I suppose that sort of thing takes imagination.

One man refused to reveal his earliest memory, which he did remember. Of course, many others probably would not want to tell their first memory. They may relate their second or third memory. Of course, that does not define what we are talking about here.

I expect to meet many more first memories, but I would enjoy more detail like the one I am about to relate now but if details are not there, one should not fabricate them. Those fabrications could go into fiction; one must remember truth is stranger and stronger than fiction. I have not heard a memory with such details, perhaps because I have not plumbed the memories of another writer. Around the age of twelve, I recognized my earliest memory at age three as the day I became a writer, not that I began writing at three, but I began watching life at three with discriminating attention. On several occasions, as a young college girl working at a department store, I could not explain why I knew something, such as detecting shoplifters before they stole the merchandise. I became more valuable as a “detective” rather than a salesperson. Later I knew a student in my class was cheating on a test without my watching the class. When he returned for his first holiday from college, he asked how I knew he cheated. All I could say was, “The bells in my head rang.” I believe such knowledge resulted from studying life from an early age. This still goes on.

Occasionally a memory can occur in episodes, even days apart. Such was mine. It was a time when mothers stayed home and, among many other duties, ironed every garment the family wore, especially starched dresses for my big sister and me, and seven or more white starched shirts a week for Father. In addition, babies popped out about one every two years.

As the memory begins, I was aware of several details: I must have been sitting in a highchair, not eating, but perhaps it kept me in harness so that Mother could iron and not have to keep up with me as I played over the house. I thought of the highchair because my head was at the same level as my little sister Ruby Lee’s head, as she stood in her crib. The three of us formed somewhat of a triangle, though I did not know what a triangle was. Mother moved the ironing board close to the crib. The highchair was the inverted base of the triangle. I seemed to do absolutely nothing except observe. The walls had light wallpaper with dark woodwork (I later gave all happy rooms in my writing white woodwork). I remember being utterly still as I watched the baby’s face. She wore two round red spots on her cheeks, redder than the 17th century Pierrette’s famous red spots as she hangs in a large needlepoint over my bed today. I wondered why the spots were so red but I did not know Pierrette at that age. However, I sensed a definite sadness in the room and did not know why.

The second episode appeared possibly only a couple of days later. A man, who must have been Father, lifted me up so that I could see into the tiny casket in our living room. I saw the white box and its soft interior but I did not see a baby in it. Ruby Lee was there, of course, as all those visitors attested. I looked all around the casket, as if I did not want to see the baby there. Perhaps I did not welcome my first look at death, for I sensed somehow that Ruby Lee would not be with us anymore.

How did that earliest memory affect my life? In music, I am likely to prefer the minor key to the major; my pleasure reading is more likely on the sober side, a murder mystery rather than a comedy; but other reading is mainly inspiring biography. Perhaps the loss of a baby sister helped me much later understand the deaths of two of my own children. I cry for the suffering of another. I have sat before television and cried for a tragedy shown there, and have cried for a whole nation in a moment’s time. If I do not shed tears because of my wording in my own writing, I expect what I write will not touch the reader. On the other hand, I believe I experience a deeper happiness than others do for the ability to go a deeper depth in sorrow. The more one experiences, the more one can enjoy, yet the more he can suffer. I have never known what it really means to be lonely, though two other persons make a crowd for me, but I can handle hundreds at a time from a speaker’s platform. That is not personal. First, not last, of major importance, I have my religious faith to which all else is connected.

Perhaps many people have manifold blessings from their early memories, but I claim what may be a distinction: an unusual observation of humankind, beginning at age three. Agatha Christie had a spider crashing her third birthday party; I met death that brought insights with an ever-widening base. Although I have had my share of travel, a successful career, and great pride and happiness in family—with Isaac Asimov I can say—I have not needed to go anywhere for I was already there.

♥

2011-08-04T21:19:00.000-07:00

Meeting My Characters

I would like to offer my views on the subject of characterization in my writing. It is a subject that repeatedly comes up for discussion in writing circles. First, let me point out that books of instruction abound on this particular topic, with two schools of thought: know all about your characters before you start writing, or let the characters introduce themselves to you when you first see them on the page. The Paris Interviews of our most famous authors indicate they wrote/write with the latter method. Katherine Anne Porter claimed she began writing Flowering Judas at 7:30 one night and was dropping it into a mailbox in the early dawn in a snowstorm. I have tried both methods and have chosen the latter. Let me give an example.

When I first read a contest theme “footprints on the ceiling,” I thought I could never write on such a subject. A day or so later, I asked myself, “Where would one be if he saw footprints on a ceiling?” Instantly, the answer came from somewhere in my gray cells: on a psychiatrist’s couch. That was all I needed to know. Hurrying to my computer, I began writing with “Dr. Heringshaw . . . ,” using a name familiar to me. After every word I typed, the next word or phrase came without hesitation. In one sitting, I wrote the 1,942-word story and did not revise it. I revise as I go. No one edits for me. Perhaps I have lost big in the contest—I have no idea about that yet—but all I knew about the protagonist was what he acted out and thought while in the doctor’s consulting room. I did not know his name till the doctor called him “Henry.” I did not know his age, income, family except his saying, “Maggie buys bananas every week.” She had to be his wife. I did not dream the story would have a cheetah in it till it did. That gave me the story’s title: “Steady Date with a Cheetah.” (I rarely name the baby till it’s born, usually about midway through the story.) Henry and the doctor are the only characters, and I tell only what Henry thinks about the doctor: I do not describe him. I do not even describe Henry. We do not need to know the color of his hair or eyes, his height or weight, or his hobbies or ancestry. However, we sense he is not skinny, but the doctor may be, for Henry thinks, “I bet he never eats pizza, the best food in the world.” That is how we know about the size of both of them. By being in Henry’s head for about ninety minutes, I learned to know him well, just as the reader might.

For the contest with no assigned theme, it was much the same thing. I had just finished reading two books, one a novel with a World War II setting in France, and the other nonfiction about France at that same historic time. Immediately I fled to my computer and wrote the fiction part of the story (not at one sitting, but more like a week), with a twelve-year-old heroine, and then dug into my files about the Allied Invasion on Normandy beach. My 3,206-word story, “To Save a Bridge,” even factually mentions General Eisenhower. I also checked with two friends to get my French correct for “Mama,” but I already knew the German perfectly.

What a thrill to write this way. If you have not tried this method of introducing your characters, why not try it. It makes writing fun. The hard work comes in all those prior years when you trained yourself to write, such as learning grammar in the fifth grade. A writer never lacks subjects to write about, the job is to select which one. I trust these two stories will win at least Honorable Mentions.

♥

2011-08-01T13:43:00.001-07:00

Congress (or anyone else) Is Silly to Say These Things More Than Once

At the end of the day, having said that, to come together, at this point in time, . . .

Can you think of any other over-worked Washington phrases like these? I get so tired of them and one is usually bad grammar when the politicians posture with it. Having said that, I need to add the subject of the sentence right after saying that beginning phrase. Such as, “Having sad that, I” or “we” perhaps, it depends on who did the saying. Now that I’ve pointed out this error to you, perhaps by this time, the Congressmen’s secretaries will have taught them the right way. But listen for it and see if you can catch them in the offense. Neil Cavuto says it right. His English is good. Maybe I’ll vote for him.

2011-07-28T18:48:00.000-07:00

Francis and Francis

I did stay out of bookstores today but did go to CostCo and there I did buy a book. It is the latest of Felix Francis’s called Gamble. It still has Dick Francis’s name on the cover, larger than Felix’s name. That makes me think Dick must have left some unfinished manuscripts when he died or perhaps outlines for stories. I can hardly wait to start reading this one—in larger than font size 11. I always enjoyed Dick’s stories but Felix adds an additional level of interest to the writing with his knowledge that his father apparently did not know, such as chemistry. I think that is what Felix taught in university. It’s almost 8:00 and I haven’t had supper. ♥

2011-07-28T07:34:00.001-07:00

The Earth Is Still Spinning

Gooch has been here for a week or so and is returning to Perth right away, at least starting for Perth. It’s a long flight. He tells me his granddaughter MarJo, the twin that survived, is now doing well, over four pounds now. The pictures on the family blog show her as healthy and beautiful. And there’s a great one of Mom and the four children. Dad in Perth must really love that one. I do.

Now I’m reading five books at once but have reached page 85 in only one. It’s late at night when I get around to reading and all the books seem to be in font size 11, a bit small for me. I won’t watch the telly till tonight. I’m going out today but I’ll try my best to stay out of bookstores. I wonder if any progress has been made overnight on the mess in Washington. But I don’t need that news on my day out. ♥

2011-07-26T08:37:00.001-07:00

THE EARTH IS HOLDING ITS ORBIT

So, Borders is going out of business and Barnes and Noble may do the same. Is that handwriting I see on the wall? Could the day come when books are unavailable for purchase? Even forbidden by government? Everyone should read Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451. That number is the temperature at which book paper burns. This story takes place in a society whose firemen—those heroic first responders—do not put out fires, but start them. They burn books.

Several steps to such a censoring of books would be necessary to get us there, but it is a possibility. We have among us an ever-increasing belligerent segment of inhabitants, who, with power, would dictate what we read. Cherish your books. As for Fahrenheit 451, it is a small book and certainly worth your time, if you have not read it, or even if you have. It made an excellent movie, too, with top actors.

♥

2011-07-25T15:27:00.000-07:00

A NOTE FOR MARILYN

Finally, I realized you gave me the title and author of the book about Kitty, and I have ordered it. Thank you so much. It doesn’t appear that there is a sequel.

♥

2011-07-25T13:09:00.001-07:00

AS THE EARTH TURNS

How nice two more comments have come in relating to Yours Is the Earth! Marilyn, I am so glad to give you the good news that Vail’s husband did return home. As for the other book you mentioned, what is the exact title and author? I have not heard of it before, I think, but it sounds like something I’d order from Amazon. If it ends with a cliffhanger, it may have a sequel. Have you searched Amazon.com for other titles by the author?

By the way, I would love for you to join the small group who have signed up for my blog. You do not have to give you real name or show a picture. You can be another “head.” But a name is great so that I’ll know whom I’m addressing.

As the earth turns, I am trying to accommodate the thought that more of my family is moving to Australia. One son works there now as a civil engineer, and his son Jacob, and now another son of his, Robby, is planning to go there, with his wife and son, Melissa and Rocco. This blog has told of them before. They were in Libya over a year. People need to go where the jobs are. Jacob’s wife and four children are still in California, waiting till the premature, surviving twin baby girl weighs enough and the doctors okay it, before they will go. This probably means I will not see the baby and the rest of them before they fly to Australia.

All these men in my family mentioned here are great readers and I think, fast readers. Nonfiction preferred.

I am reading extremely slowly three books at the same time, one fiction and the other two nonfiction. I expect to talk about them here later.

♥

2011-07-24T13:47:00.001-07:00

NOTHING SURPRISES ME THESE DAYS

Soon I expect to rename this blog. When I lost it not long ago, I Googled the name of mine and found several with the same name. I read a bit of two or three of them, and found such foolishness. I had the feeling they were copycats and were trying to destroy mine, perhaps because of content they didn’t like. And maybe they had nothing worth saying on theirs. I’ll inform my real readers when the time comes.

♥