A Story

                                        Ghost Writer

“Are you a ghost?”

“No, I am a muse. Can’t you tell the difference?”

“Ah, I suppose I can’t. You look imaginary to me.”

“Mercy fellow, you need a muse. You’ve been sitting at that silent computer for a long while now. All I hear is the click of torn nails on the desk top tapping out Bee Gee hits.”

“So if you are a muse, inspire me.”

“Sure, you want me to do all the work.  I’m here for guidance, not some Tom Sawyer sucker to paint your fence…or write your story that is.”

“I want to write a murder mystery, but I can’t get beyond how the body is found.”

“You have a body then. So how was it killed? Knife, strangulation, gun shot, overzealous sex or what?

“I hadn’t thought of HOW yet!”

“Man, then get going. Tell me, just tell me what you think.”

“Hum, I think he was shot…with a pistol, actually an old Colt revolver…in these dark   thick woods, tall oaks maybe…”

“Wait a minute, so this is a western with an old six shooter, but not in the Old West I know because there aren’t a lot of forests out there.”

“I hadn’t thought about a western. Say, that is a good idea!  In my mind it was in present day

Pennsylvania, but I like your idea better. Maybe he is in a stand of cottonwoods instead... yes,

that’s it.”

“In the back or somewhere else?”

“Pardon me, in back of what?”

“The victim, of course. Is he shot in the back or was he in a duel or was he shot in the head? Makes a difference you know.  If he was shot in the back, he might have been the story’s victim. If shot in the front, maybe he was in an attempted robbery, him being the villain. If he was shot…”

“Yeah, I know. I get the idea and I think he was shot in the back. But I still want him to be the bad guy. So how will I do this…hum…and I need a girl don’t ya think?”

“Depends, you mean a girl left behind, a girl shooter, a girl two men fought over?                What sort of girl exactly?”

“I don’t know, but if you’ll excuse me, I want to start getting some of this down while it is fresh in my mind.”

“Well yes indeed, and you’re welcome.”
“No, I appreciate it, really I do, but I certainly need to get to work.  But wait a minute, will you be back again tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. Do you believe in ghosts?”

Careful with the Camera

I take pictures when I am out and about. Our trip pictures are places we see or sites we visit; rarely do we stand in front a state sign or on the edge of a canyon while some stranger snaps us. We might be sorry someday that we have few pictures of ourselves, especially me who is the main picture-taker.

Recently it came to my attention that while many love to have their pictures taken, giving pristine poses and flashing coy smiles, some do not. For myself, I hate to see the loss of the person I used to be. It is hard to relish flab and wrinkles when I remember the feeling of taut skin, fresh and moist as unbroken lake water on a still day. Other friends hate their gray, their now ever-present bifolcals, or the scars from pre-cancerous burns. It doesn’t matter why, but that they are uncomfortable with being snapped. I think we ought to be considerate of their rathers.

This all came to me during a recent tea at my house where more than one of us was snapping shots. I heard someone gasp and moan when cameras came out, and I recognized her feelings. Another asked later where those pictures were going, where would they be used, and I recognized real discomfort. When I saw the pictures I took, I had a great group shot of everyone but one. She looked terrible to put it bluntly. I have too much respect for my friend to put up her picture publicly, so sharing the tea will have to remain a table top only.

 

While the tea was wonderful and warm and chatty and pleasant, I was left with some real thinking about pictures. I love having photographs from times past, and I study old family photos and studio takes looking for clues to who I am, whose face I wear.  I love candid shots that snap up the time and mood and season as much I like the faces. But I also remember that pictures were also one of my first horrors.

                                            My typical face when the camera came out.

My mother took me to the studio for portraits as soon as I was able. Many of those pictures are ones with tears. I fought the camera and wailed through them all. My mother was furious. What was I thinking? I have thought back and can’t remember WHY I cried so. I can feel those big lights, the goofy photographer, the toys jiggled in my face…nothing scary, but I cried. I hated it. How I wish I could recall what was in my mind, but I only remember the horrible sessions.

Now days EVERYONE has a camera of some kind in their hands, snapping here and there and actually invading our privacy at every turn. I remember years ago attending my son’s senior talent show. I was enjoying his music tremendously when another parent tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to move out of the way. Her husband wanted to set up video cameras to film THEIR daughter’s talent. The assumption was it was surely more important than my son’s. In dealing with them I missed part of my son’s time. Maybe everyone should put down the cameras and enjoy the moment instead of saving it on film.

Although I take a lot of pictures, I am nervous about it. I am well aware of invading the space of others. I ask permission often and most of the time people say, “Oh sure.” In a time where posting pictures means more sales, more bits of lame fame, or making social connections, pictures seem to be a given. Primitive people used to think a photo stole their souls or could be used for Black Magic. I doubt if such beliefs still linger, but there are people who just don’t want to be captured by cameras. So be considerate and try to see the other guy’s feelings, ridiculous as they might seem to you.  

Be careful with your camera.

Remembering Mr. President

At the end of the week, an anniversary will arrive. It will be 50 y ears since an American president was murdered. The media hasn’t forgotten the interest in this man and makes sure America’s citizens today still see the assassination as it happened with film footage. I remember the time well and need no reminder. Seeing the films again brings back the horror and stunned breathlessness of that day.

I was in fifth and sixth grade when John Kennedy was coming to the front of politics. A wonderful teacher was teaching Civics…making us aware of current events. I listened. I became interested. I started listening to speeches, following campaigns, celebrating elections. JFK gave me a sense of real belonging; I wanted to do for my country!

Then when I was a freshman, the bullet took him out and changed America. There was a rumble in the halls during lunch; rumors flew, worry lines formed on faces. We went on to our afternoon classes which put me in my most hated class ever, Algebra, with a detestable man. We had not gotten far into class when the intercom announced the death of our President. I will never forget the smirk on the teacher’s face as he watched some of us crumble. Remember, this was in Republican Kansas but still there were believers in the dream of Camelot.

School was dismissed, and we went home early for a long weekend to deal with the shock.

Since then, many unsavory details have come to light about the man John Kennedy and the President JFK. I don’t like them, but they don’t erase the feeling I had in those days. Many dismiss Kennedy as just a randy Irish Catholic. They may be correct, but I think despite his inadequacies there is still much to admire. I don’t deny his weaknesses, but I choose to see the leadership he gave despite his defects. It can’t be denied that he galvanized a generation to action, tried to move the world towards a better place.

Maybe JFK’s faults gave us as much as his virtues. Maybe we should see that despite being less than perfect he did do good things and went down doing what he thought was right—in parts of his life anyway. After all, Camelot was a mythical place and John Kennedy was a flesh and blood man, but one who stood a little above the rest even if on feet of clay.

 

Remembering Poetry

I belong to the Crawford County Bombadils, a poetry group. I have never met any of the poets, but the president keeps everyone looped together by email. She gives us a writing assignment every month or two and then we share our work. This month she said to try recalling a very early experience you had of reading or hearing language that interested or excited or confused or enlightened you.  Then we were to write about it, not necessarily poetry.

 

 

                                                                 Erie Grade School

 

This is mine:t, reading, multiplication tables, and this was the year for poetry. Mrs. Wells taught us about rhyme and how to set up line lengths on a page. She sharpened our awareness to things around us, made us attentive to the seasons. We were taught to keep a Poetry Notebook.

One whole segment of the wall length blackboard had permanent white lines like a piece of paper. Sometime near the first of each month, we had a poetry lesson. As a class we thought up a list of images that represented the month’s activities and then suggested sentences to make poems while teacher put those sentences up on the blackboard page. Together the teacher and class produced a nice poem about October’s red maple leaves or April’s sweet Easter Bunny. We were to copy the poem neatly on a page to put into a “folder” we had made ourselves of construction paper and paper brads.

Then sometime in the month we were to write a similar poem of our own and include it the folder. We decorated our folder, and we were encouraged to draw or color scenes on the poem page that depicted the poem. Mrs. Wells taught us some minor drawing too. Of course a summer tree was easy, two lines and a ballooning circle overhead, but a winter tree? She taught us how to draw stately oaks with limbs and branches free of leaves reaching skyward. I loved those trees! And to this day, if sitting with pencil and paper I find myself doodling one of the trees if I let my mind wander.

Any free time we could work on our poetry. Then occasionally Mrs. Wells collected the folders and read each page leaving encouraging comments or helpful ideas on the poetry pages. While we were too young for metaphors and similes, for alliteration, we learned appreciation and love of poetry first; the rest would come. She planted seeds that would become a love a language and a working knowledge about the power of words. The brick building might be gone, but the poetry we learned in the old brick halls stills sings loud and clear in our minds and hearts, the songs never-ending.

Recently in the name of progress, the two-storied, red brick school house was torn down in my Kansas hometown. I spent good years there, walked away with memories and lessons I remember still. One of the best years in that old school was the fourth grade, the last age group on the ground floor and taught by Phyllis Wells, who was a kind and genial woman, always.

I had wrestled through the alphabet, reading, multiplication tables, and this was the year for poetry. Mrs. Well taught us about rhyme and how to set up line lengths on a page. She sharpened our awareness to things around us, made us attentive to the seasons. We were taught to keep a Poetry Notebook.

One whole segment of the wall length blackboard had permanent white lines like a piece of paper. Sometime near the first of each month, we had a poetry lesson. As a class we thought up a list of images that represented the month’s activities and then suggested sentences to make poems while teacher put those sentences up on the blackboard page. Together the teacher and class produced a nice poem about October’s red maple leaves or April’s sweet Easter Bunny. We were to copy the poem neatly on a page to put into a “folder” we had made ourselves of construction paper and paper brads.

Then sometime in the month we were to write a similar poem of our own and include it the folder. We decorated our folder, and we were encouraged to draw or color scenes on the poem page that depicted the poem. Mrs. Well taught us some minor drawing too. Of course a summer tree was easy, two lines and a ballooning circle overhead, but a winter tree? She taught us how to draw stately oaks with limbs and branches free of leaves reaching skyward. I loved those trees! And to this day, if sitting with pencil and paper I find myself doodling one of the trees if I let my mind wander.

Any free time we could work on our poetry. Then occasionally Mrs. Wells collected the folders and read each page leaving encouraging comments or helpful ideas on the poetry pages. While we were too young for metaphors and similes, for alliteration, we learned appreciation and love of poetry first; the rest would come. She planted seeds that would become a love a language and a working knowledge about the power of words. The brick building might be gone, but the poetry we learned in the old brick halls stills sings loud and clear in our minds and hearts, the songs never-ending.

November, Chili Weather

 

Spaghetti squash with chili topping

 

It is one of the first mornings when I wake up and the floors are cold, the rooms have a bite. as I begin to brew tea, the warm steam makes clouds of condensation on the windows. Leaves are wet so they no longer tumble; they hug the deck boards, the windows, the now empty flower pots for dear life knowing well winter is coming for sure.

Foggy windows and a gentle nudge to the thermostat make me think of soups, chowders and chilies. I rarely follow a recipe for chili. Instead I use what I have handy, and my chili is like vegetable soup, a new mix and a new creation each time. Everyone has a favorite chili, and choices reflect regional tastes. I grew up with lots of chili powder and cumin in my mom’s chili, but DH thinks salt and tomatoes with beans is chili.

Here in town the Catholic Church has an annual chili feed as a fund raiser. They always set bowls of saltines and dill pickles on the table. Pickles with chili was a new one for me. (Remember I am the one who thinks pickles go with pancakes!) The Episcopal Church here makes chili for congregational dinners, but the present priest doesn’t care for it. Local chili is too mushy he says. He likes his with meat not cooked to death and with chocolate…a sweeter chili. And then there are those that put beer in their chili as it cooks.

My mother always crumbled up crackers in her chili. I tried it but never cared for it. I loved crackers WITH my chili as a child, not crackers IN the bowl. But we all put vinegar on our chili and never thought it odd at all. However, when I went to college, an English prof ridiculed the practice. He was a rigidly proper Brit who never liked paper napkins and refused to go into a place that used plastic tableware. He said he had eaten all over the world, but he was aghast when he came to Southeast Kansas where people poured vinegar on their chili! Ah, I never knew there was another way.

Then there are the beans…or beanless chili maybe. Does one use pinto beans, navy beans, white beans, kidney beans or what? I like them all, and now I love to use Anasazi beans too. These are mild bean grown in New Mexico, spotted like a pinto horse.  They are touted to be sweeter and less gassy, but I do know they are good.

And what about the bread accompaniment? Is it cornbread or crackers? I like both so it isn’t major issue for me on chili days. Topping, is it cheese or catsup?

So how do you eat YOUR chili? Vinegar for you?

Spaghetti squash topped with chili...a new chili idea.

Autumn Drive to Fort Scott

 

The day after we arrived home from the trip, DH jumped into a big project. He wanted to replace a bedroom window and repair a wall crack, and all this meant removing wallpaper, sheetrocking, mudding, sanding, and repainting. He ordered the window and set to work on the room. It was a royal mess for a week. It is almost done now except for the window which has not arrived yet.

During the week long mess inside there was cold and rain outside. This weekend the sun has returned with some mighty nice warm air, but more rain and very cold is forecast for next week. So although we were quite tired, DH thought we ought to do something. I thought just sitting on our deck for what will possibly be the last time this year sounded good, but he wanted a ride—a short one though. He said let’s check out Ft. Scott.

Ft. Scott, Kansas was founded when a frontier fort was built near the Marmaton River in the mid-1800s. The fort was again important during the Civil War when the border between Kansas and Missouri was volatile. We grew up about 60 miles from the town in Kansas and now live about the same distance away again only in Missouri. The town is an old Victorian beauty now struggling like other small towns to maintain itself. The lovely homes are mostly well attended and the slightly bumpy brick streets are worth the drive.

 
The fort is now a National Historic site and lovingly restored. The fort’s grounds butt up next to the brick street of the old town. Painted Lady store fronts house businesses, eateries, antique shops and specialty stores. Today was perfect for strolling in and out the few stores that appealed to us. We stopped just to sit in the warm sunshine on nice benches the town had provided.

 

At noon we drove down National Street hunting Nate’s Place which a storekeeper had told us about. Two matching mansions now serve as a bed and breakfast and a restaurant. We had a nice lunch there, although DH thought the place was confused somewhat in its identity. Lovely old Victorian rooms became the dining areas with red velvet chairs and lush, extra-large napkins. The menu, however, focused on mainly breakfast foods like eggs and pancakes with a few sandwich choices. I got the special of the day which was salad, lasagna, and garlic toast. It was very good and the lasagna portion was the size of a king-sized bed.

 

Once we had found a few junky treasures and had a big lunch, we found ourselves tired and spent. We came on home to collapse in our chairs. It was a good day although the threat of coming winter lingered at the back of our minds all day. We relished each vibrant tree and fallow field we passed knowing that soon the celebration of autumn  will draw to a close making way for  winter solstice to drape us in darkness.

 

More Sites in Indiana

                                                Fairy Garden at the James Whitcomb Riley home

Little pixy people
Winged above the walk
Pouring from the steeple
Of a mullein-stalk.

After we left the James Whitcomb Riley house, we headed for the Kentucky border. On the way we went through a berg named Metamora. The area looked liked it had seen more prosperous times. At the south edge there was the area for Whitewater Canal National Historic Site.

 

 

This canal was built when Indiana wanted to be a part of the canal systems that were a short-lived method of commerce. It was expensive to build and bonds sold did not make enough money. Eventually, Indiana became the only state to ever become bankrupt. Even today they are a pay as you go state and operate only with a very balanced budget. I think the rest of us could learn a lot from Indiana!

It was so cold while we were there that we did not linger long. We passed on a canal ride. The horses were resting in their little shed between pulls. We passed on walking among the shops, but we did visit the grist mill, always a favorite place for us. I bought a bag of stone ground corn meal there.

Then it was to our kids...hugs, games, books...one evening we made ice cream in baggies by shaking. Oh, the two year old and four year old loved shaking those bags, but they loved eating ice cream they made even better. The pumpkin patch was so, so cold on Saturday morning. Even the farmer felt sorry for us and gave us a special price since we had braved the cold and it was end of the season.

When we left, we returned to Indiana and made a brief stop in Madison. We had been here before, but it is such a lovely river town we like being here. The weather had warmed up so much and the streets were full of shoppers. We parked in front of a wonderful used bookstore! I could have stayed at Village Lights Bookstore all day.

                                                                 

                                                           

                                             Mark Twain room inside bookstore




But we meandered into some resale or flea market shops. Found this darling basket from Putney, Vermont in one. I don't need it and am not sure how I will use it, but it was too sweet to leave.

The car was loaded and a bundle of it was dirty laundry. The only thing to do was head for Missouri.

Harvest Time in the American Heartland

 

"When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock..."

After spending a few hours at the Churchill Memorial in Fulton, Missouri we drove on to Louisiana, Missouri. It was a darling little river town on the Mississippi, but it was early evening and all the cute shops were closed. Because we wanted to get down the road, we crossed the river into Illinois and pushed on.

It was deer hunting season in Illinois and the hunters were active. So were the deer, literally running for their lives. Unfortunately, several did not make it and the shoulders of the road were littered with carcasses. The corn harvest was ratcheting up too. The land was flat and the earth black; DH was impressed and said it must be some of the richest farm ground on earth.

 

                                                                                       

 

 

We stopped in Decatur, Illinois-a lovely town- at a Railroad Depot that had been turned in to a an antique/flea market stop. It is always interesting to see the “stuff” accumulated in other areas. It was a nice to get off the road too. DH found a set of Blue Willow salt and pepper shakers that I did not think we needed. But he enjoys the hunt too and they rang up even cheaper than marked. I also found a ricer…something my mother had long ago. I recently saw a recipe calling for one. Can someone tell me how and why they use a ricer?

The harvest was really going in Indiana too. I hate driving through these states when corn is head-high. It is boring and all that corn feels stifling. But the harvest was beautiful, and it felt good to see farmers feeding America. Mammoth machines gobbled the stalks and spit out the kernels. Semis mind you, carried the corn to elevators. Sometimes there was so much corn it had to be piled on the ground as the silos were full. Mile after mile of corn…and not small farmers of the old days either.

 

 

 

 Southern Indiana is marked by neatness. The farms are clean and neat. The towns are mere crossroads, a store or two  in some cases, reminding you of Ike Godsey’s store on Walton’s Mountain. When I saw the sign for Ernie Pyle’s hometown, I nearly choked. I told DH to turn fast into the berg. Oh, the site was closed! But I definitely wrote this down for a future trip! Ernie Pyle was a great writer known for his journalistic coverage of battles in World War II.  My writing lab studied his coverage of Normandy beaches after the invasion….quite a picture of the true cost of war!

                                                      Ernie Pyle home and museum

Indianapolis…just got around it! I hate big cities more and more…make me feel claustrophobic with all that cement and strip malls and car fumes. But right beyond the heavy traffic to the east was a delightful town named Richmond. We had a big breakfast in a place where the locals go. It was good and lots of food. Then we headed for the birthplace of James Whitcomb Riley! We had a wonderful guide through the house and grounds. I learned so much about Riley that I did not know as I only had bare knowledge of this poet. He was creator of the Little Orphan Annie character and also the Raggedy Ann and Andy personalities. His own life was so interesting…due to hard times after the Civil War the family home was lost. He promised his mother he would grow up and buy the house back which is what he did. It was a beautiful home in its day and still is quite a beauty.

                                                     James Whitcomb Riley home

I bought a newly issued collection of his farm poems in the gift shop. These are just right for reading in harvest time Indiana, in the autumn season. Riley’s poems are meant to be read aloud. He wrote for both children and adults. This is when I miss teaching…where one can share beautiful words with new readers!

                                                   Red shoes that appeared in one of Riley's poems

 

                                                                         Riley dining room from mid 1800's

 

Are you familiar with James Whitcomb Riley? Have a favorite poem?

Old October’s purt’ nigh gone’

And the frosts is coming on…..

……I love Old October so

I can’t bear to see her go---

 

November Starts With Guest Blogging!

 

 

Ah, October is gone and November is here. I know this month will go fast as November always does. Soon, to my disgust, we will hear Christmas carols while shopping for turkeys. Poor Pilgrims will take a back seat again. I always loved the Pilgrim stories when I was in grade school…and the stories about the Mayflower…and about Squanto…because I loved history. I still do.

On the last road trip, our first stop was at the Churchill Museum and St. Mary’s church brought to American stone by stone after being bombed out in WWII. I loved going back in time to the 1940’s. I wrote about this stop as a guest blogger for Susan over at Writing Straight from Heart. Why don’t you head over there today and check it out. Leave a comment while you’re there if you can. Susan and I both adore reading the thoughts of others!

Here is the link: writingstraightfromtheheart.blogspot.com