Art! Poetry! Music!

I am very excited to be a part of an art exhibition opening up tomorrow at Gilmer Arts. Candy Crawford Day will be showing over forty pieces of beautiful art. At the beginning of the show, I am honored to be reading some of the poetry that Lucy Harris penned, which were inspired by pieces of art. 

The whole thing should be a rip roaring good time, and I hope if you  like poetry, or you like art, or you  like  music or you  just like to support the local artists who work so hard, that you will drop in and spend a few minutes with us.

Candy says:

Getting close to Friday and the opening of my hometown show at Gilmer Arts in Ellijay. The special part of this show is the inclusion of Lucy Harris' poetry, with readings by Kathi Harper Hill and a song performed by Noah May. All the work in this show will feature local people and places.....thus the title "Where The Heart Is". Hope you'll stop by this Good Friday, from 4 to 7, 207 Dalton Street, Ellijay GA 30540

I Am Gobsmacked

Truly, I am.

Gobsmacked, that is.

I just read a recent review on amazon about my latest book, "Bensy and Me". 

The lady who wrote it is a great writer herself. Her poetry will bring you to your knees.

She taught creative writing as her profession before she retired a few years ago.

On top of everything else, she's a hoot.

It's hard for me to brag about my own work, in fact, it's even hard for me to try and sell my own work. I'd never make a living as a salesman of any kind. It's just darned embarrassing.

However; this is something even I want to shout from the rooftops. Not only because of what was said, but who said it.

So, here goes:

Lucy Harris here. I struggle to do justice to this wonderful masterwork of Southern humor. I have been reading daily since I was six years old - I am now sixty-five, and for most of my reading years I have clearly understood how difficult it is for a book to shake loose a deep belly-laugh. In my vast reading experience, only a few have succeeded though many have tried. Yet, Bensy and Me has at least one big laugh and sometimes many more per page. I know because I put a check mark on each page which contained at least one. I giggled as I read the author's note in the front, and then as directed, turned to Uncle Wend's Dictionary in the back - been laughing ever since. This is the only book I have ever read slowly because I wanted to savor the surprise and delight. I would not allow myself to read more than a few pages a day. I kept thinking, "This can't go on," but it does. From first page to last, it is purely filled with light, not to mention small town love, wisdom, and plain old-fashioned good, clean living. The cast of characters spans a country mile but centers on the reflections of a man who many call Charlie as he is thinking, "I hate being called Charlie," through the regular ups and downs of being the proud father of six children, four of whom are delivered as quadruplets at the beginning of the story. How Ms. Harper squeezed so many twists and turns and so much laughter out of plain old life is a hilarious mystery to me (which often involves cows, hair salons, Christmas - I could go on), but I am so glad she did; and if you have any sense at all, you’ll get a copy and find out what I mean.

Thank you, dear, sweet woman. Thank you.

What? I can't say ! What is that? I can't see it.

Well, as we say here in Appalachia, I been real sick.

Husband had it first - respiratory, drifting into bronchitis. Then Daughter had it, sans bronchitis.

Then it was my turn, with bronchitis and laryngitis.

As soon as you stop all your corny jokes about how that sure did give Husband a well earned vacation from all my yakking, consider this:

I can't hear well, so he has to be in close proximity to speak. I can't see well without  my glasses, so if I'm reading, he has to get close for me to see. And with the ability to speak only in a whisper for five days, guess how close he had to be to hear me? 

I guess he ain't as lucky as you thought.

But all things pass, and I woke up with a voice yesterday. 

I still ain't at full throttle, so don't expect any yodeling any time soon.

Where Will It All End?

Husband and I finished building this house in 1987. We moved in May of that year.

For many years, we did  not turn the air conditioning on until June. For most of May we kept the windows opened, and the cool breeze was more than enough.

As the years went by, we began turning the air on sometime in May. 


Then, April.

It is still March and last night was the second time we have slept with the air on upstairs. Admittedly, we had an inch of snow in between times.

Why is this?

Many of you will raise your hands and say, "Oh, I know! Global warming!"

Obviously something is happening, whether it's global warming, or the weather cycle has slowly come around to a time we don't recall.

Or:

I read something a few months ago that fascinated me. You may be a creationist, or a evolutionist or somewhere in between (I don't think there really is such a thing).

But a scientist, who is also a creationist said this: In the beginning God created a tropical paradise. It stayed that way until the Great Flood.

The Great Flood caused cataclysmic shifts in the weather, causing the Ice Age. And Earth has been slowly recovering from that for several thousand years.

You  may laugh at this, disagree or think about it. I don't know the truth, except that Mother Nature is one fickle woman.

It All Started With A Titmouse (pardon my French)

It all started with a Titmouse. It was a big Titmouse, and I've always heard big ones cause the most disturbance.

Husband put up a clear feeder for me. It's suctioned to the kitchen window. Eli, our Maine Coon, loves to sit in the chair, with his head slightly bent (so he's hiding), tail going one  hundred miles an hour. 

Apparently a Titmouse cracks open a seed before he eats it. He (or she) has started banging on the perch of the feeder. It's so loud it sounds like someone is knocking.

Which is what Bonnie thought. She came tearing through the house, using her deep "I'll get the burglar" bark. Careening around the corner into the kitchen, she ran smack into Eli, who did not appreciate it.

He bowed up big, hissed and growled.

Now, Eli is the alpha animal in our house. But Frost, the oldest cat, is the patriarch.

Anytime he hears another animal in distress, he comes, growling like a lion, tail as big as my fist. He means business.

So, the cats chased the dog into the sun room.

Naturally, I was on the phone with Mother. I told her to hold on twice, in a loud, panicked voice, but she kept on yammering away, so I had to holler at the animals in her ear. 

Bonnie was cowed down, looking up at me in a "Do something" kind of way.

Now, even if you add both cat's weight, it still isn't quite half of what Bonnie weighs.

But, of course, she knows they are "family", even if it's crazy, armed, dangerous family, and she isn't allowed to hurt them.

Also, if I had a 19 pound (fat) furious cat and a 21 pound (not fat, all bone and muscle) cat circling me, growling and hissing, bowed up like a prize fighter, I'd be a little worried too, no matter how much I weighed.

I told Eli to get, and he did.  Frost doesn't mind as well, so I had to come between him and Bonnie. This isn't as dangerous as it would be with Eli, as Frost is de-clawed. He doesn't know this, apparently.
(and don't fuss on me, he was de-clawed when he got him at the shelter).

I got back to Mother. "What in world is going on?" She asked.

I told her.

"Well, my goodness."

I'll say.

The Rest of the Story

As you recall from the previous blog, we'd had a cold  night.

Here is the rest of the day:

I went downstairs to the warm part of the house to discover Fin  had died. Now, it wasn't really a surprise, he'd been off his feed (do fish go off their feed?) for about three weeks. I have a lot of experience with this, and every time that happens, watch out.

We had Fin for about a year, I guess, and that seems to be the extent of a Beta's stay with us. The one before him (not counting the one that died 3 days later and I made Husband take him back for a refund), was Tyke. She was a baby, less than the size of my pinkie nail, hence the name. And even though her box was marked "male" it didn't make her one. She was rather dull in color. However; she lived two years, so I guess if you get 'em young, you get to keep 'em longer.

I miss Fin. As soon as Husband gets over the Mongolian strangle or whatever it is he has, he's going fishing at Wal-mart.

Next, Daughter calls me all het up. Turns out she's waiting at the four way stop and sees a car coming toward her who doesn't stop, but rear ends her. And then, for good measure, does it again.

She said at first she was afraid it was some evil meanie, but then she saw it was some old lady.

Ahem. Turns out it was a classmate of mine. Some old lady, indeed.

At any rate, Daughter recognized her as she approached the car. 

Of course, this occurred as Daughter was on her way to be oriented to her new, other part time job. 

Turns out it only cost us $10.00 to replace the plastic red thingie that fits over a tail light.

The woman that hit her, however; told Daughter (who she just happen to run in to the next day) Get it! Get it! Run into! Ha!
that she is having to have a new bumper and headlight. 

You just shouldn't mess around with a P.T. Cruiser. They are chunky and low to the ground. They don't move much.

Daughter was sore across her chest the next day from where the seat belt had locked and kept her immobile.  

Have  you noticed some days are fuller than others?

Tis so.

Revenge is a dish best served cold (Shakespeare)

"Revenge is a dish best served cold", so says Shakespeare and a bunch of other folks.

Craig Johnson's first Walt Longmire novel's title reflects the same proverb.

Well.

Many of you will think I got revenge played upon me after last night.

Those of you who know me know I love snow. I have unashamedly taunted those of you who do not when we have been blessed by the white stuff.

Last night, you got your revenge, and it was cold.

Somehow the thermostat upstairs was bumped down to about fifty-eight degrees. Now, we like to sleep with it cool, about sixty-two.

It's amazing what four little degrees can do to your dream state.

I dreamt of snow all night long. Every dream my little mind could think up included snow.

I would wake up (sorta) knowing it was awfully cold in the bedroom, but wake up not enough to actually get up and investigate. At one point I remember thinking, "Lord, I hope the heat pump ain't finally bit the dust." (It's thirty years old.)

It was extremely difficult to get up at 6:30, but my bladder said I absolutely had to. And I forgot to look at the thermostat until I was back under the warm covers, so we froze another 2 hours.

Now, the bedroom that was mine all my growing up probably got a lot colder on occasion, as we did not have central heat. I've waked up to ice on the inside of the thin window panes many a morning. But that's been a while back. I've gotten soft, I reckon.

It was nice to go downstairs to a sixty-four degree atmosphere, which quickly heated up to sixty-seven. Hot coffee, warm flannel and a pair of thick socks did the trick to bringing me back to the reality that there was no snow in sight.

Sigh.