Veterans Day

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! — An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, —
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

By Wilfred Owen (1893-1918) -- a WWI soldier-poet's thoughts on the lines from Horace:

Dulce et decorem est pro patria mori -- It is sweet and fitting to die for your country.

Sheep Dog Trials

On Sunday, for a little pre-anniversary treat, we went to the sheep dog trials at Rural Hill in Huntersville, NC.

It's a joy to see these intense, intelligent dogs do what they've been bred to do -- move sheep in accordance to their master's signals. . . (There's a good description HERE.)

And when the sheep are penned and the master has said,'That'll do,' there's the reward of a handy tub of water.

Below is a slide show of the day and I'll try to explain just what amazing things these dogs do. Click on the picture to biggify.

Reflections on an Anniversary

Forty six years -- where does the time go?

Are we even still the same people who made those ambitious vows back in 1963?

We've been together far longer than we were apart . . . it's hard to remember a time when we weren't a couple. After so many years, we finish each other's sentences . . . answer unasked questions . . . and very often seem to read each other's thoughts. Almost as if we were mirror images of one another.

But it's just possible that we're still together, against the odds ("I give this marriage five years," said my mother back in '64) because we've learned to give each other space to follow our own particular dreams -- freedom to fly.

And the sure and certain knowledge of a familiar place to land.

Sunset Marching Practice

The most glorious sunset was spread across the western sky last Wednesday night.

Unfortunately, I was in Asheville, hurrying to meet my writing class, and there was no way I could get an unobstructed shot. Frustrating!

I got to the school where my class meets early, hoping to catch the drummers at it again, especially since (ahem) I've figured out how to do movies with my wonderful new camera.

Alas, no terrific drum riffs this time. But I did record the little kids learning the basics --

And then I found out how to get my video on to You Tube. (Oh, I'm proud of myself!)

I haven't figured out how to edit out some of the repetitious bits but in time I'll figure this stuff out . . .

You can check it out below. . . and isn't that guy in charge a fine teacher?

Tater Digging Time Again

Time to roust out all those fine Kennebecs and Yukon Golds.

John and Justin and Claui and I spent part of a chilly afternoon picking the potatoes from the dark clinging soil after the plow had 'busted' them out. It was a bountiful crop -- far more than we'll use. And we still have this many again left to dig.

Alas, potatoes bring about 23 cents a pound!

We talked about ways of marketing to make the crop more desirable -- "Organically grown Appalachian pommes de terre - 'apples of the earth' -- sustainably raised in a heritage mountain cove and artisanally tended and harvested. No animals were harmed in the production of this traditional crop. By appointment to royalty."

Okay, so the last bit's not true. And maybe we need to use lovely tradional burlap bags for the harvest instead of our recycled petfood bags. Although the recycled bit could be a selling point . . .

Benjamin Franklin Freeman

Oh, the stories that fall into my lap! Just like all the wonderful stuff about Inez and Odessa that Nancy Meadows shared with me, now I'm getting to know someone even closer to home -- Benjamin Franklin Freeman.

Ben Freeman with his daughter and grandchildren

Terry Roberts, the great-great grandson of Benjamin Franklin Freeman, sent me these old pictures, along with the bare details of Freeman's life.

Terry wrote:

". . . Benjamin Franklin Freeman (1834-1907), who is buried in the Freeman Cemetery (or sometimes called the "Gid Payne" Cemetery) up on the right just at the head of Anderson Branch. He is my great-great grandfather, and in so many ways is the most ambiguous character in the long drama of the family.

My guess is you've taken a walk or two through that cemetery (sign on the gate reads "KEEP CLOSED OR: CATTLE WILL DESTROY YOUR GRAVES").

Just to give you a tease, he fought in both armies during the civil war. He and his brother killed a member of the confederate home guard (who has stolen the family horse) after the war. He "studied medicine" under a doctor in Mars Hill and "wrote prescriptions" through much of his later life. He tried to kill his wife's lover round about 1870, but since he only had his pocket knife, he managed just to "cut him."

And this is just the beginning. And he was (or is; Faulkner says there is no "was") your neighbor on Anderson Branch. "

In a later email, Terry said:

"My understanding from the Freemans is that they lived (when they lived together)
just up at the head of Anderson Branch. And when they separated, he loaded up a sled (pulled by oxen of course) and "moved to the other side of the mountain," where he built the cabin you see in first picture I sent you.

That first picture (with the cabin) is dated ~1880. Kneeling in front of him is his daughter
Margaret Graham, holding two of her children: Millard and Flora. Standing beside him is his granddaughter,
Belva Anderson, who later married Julius Roberts (and who is my grandmother).

The dog is unidentified..."


An old photo of Freeman and his estranged wife, Harriet, from late in their lives, when most of their personal war was over.... ca 1900-1905.I asked for more about Harriet,(how could I not?) and Terry responded:"Apparently they were both hot-tempered, passionate, "robust" people, and if
anything, she was meaner than he. When they sued each other for divorce, he had thrown her out of the house and the children stayed with him for several years (fairly young children, girls as well as boys) until she tried to get them back as part of a divorce settlement.

It apparently started with the war and the fact that he left her to join the union army. Then after he returned, he went to jail at one point for making liquor. She may or may not have had a lover at any of these junctures while he was gone. He caught her by virtue of the fact that she gave him a venereal disease.

It's a perfectly sordid story in many ways, and yet when you read the long, rambling stories he told the federal pension agents, you can't help but like him. And apparently the children and grandchildren all sided with him (which should tell us something about her...). He was a bit of a con man, story teller, whiskey maker, sometime farmer who practiced a sort of rustic medicine (two people have told me he "wrote prescriptions": what does
that mean?). And his children loved him even though he apparently was involved in killing one man and tried to kill another....

I'm still trying to piece together the story--slowly working through a time line. As a child, I was told she refused to live with him after the war. But the more I learn, the more complex it becomes....

And oh yes, he wrote a beautiful hand, and she could not sign her name: put an "X" to mark her depositions.

And like I say: all in your backyard . . ."

l

In my backyard, indeed! The Gid Payne cemetery borders our farm. Those are our bad cows the sign warns against. And Benjamin was the grandfather of Clifford, from whom we bought our farm. I had to pay a visit to this neighbor so I went up the road . . .

Up on the little hogback ridge, I looked for Ben amongst all his many descendants.

There he is -- no wife at his side.



















I get the feeling it suits him just fine.

Steampunk

After a brief tour round the internet in quest of this steam punk thing, these are my findings.

Do you remember the movie "The Time Machine"? That was kind of steam punk.

So was "Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea."

And, adding this late after my husband mentioned it, "The Wild, Wild West," a TV show we used to watch avidly in the early Sixties, fits right in here with the ingenious Dr. Lovelace (Loveless ?) and his amazing (but evil) inventions.

Steam punk seems to refer to a kind of science fiction/fantasy that posits a Victorian/Edwardian world that has not advanced beyond steam power (thus the 'steam' of steam punk) but that, nonetheless, includes advanced technological wonders of great and beautiful intricacy -- like the ornate Time Machine itself or the eerily beautiful submarine Nautilus. The social mores of this alternative history world are also different -- evidently in much of steam punk literature, women have escaped the subservient role they occupied in reality.

The term steam punk goes beyond the written word to include art derived from the concept -- click on these first two images to see more. (I do love this brass and leather laptop -- though I wonder where the boiler is that powers it.)

There is amazing art consisting of strange assemblages of vaguely scientific looking instruments. Lenses are popular.

And there's steampunk fashion -- the formal clothing of the Victorian/Edwardian era with some definite twists.

I find all of this oddly intriguing. If I were inclined to dress up (I'm not), I could be tempted by a "Darkstar gothic pirate steam punk long brocade coat."

And goggles -- evidently there must be goggles.

As I delve deeper into this world (I have a steam punk novel on the TBR list,) I'll report back.

If I'm wearing goggles and a long brocade coat, just smile quietly to yourself.

It Was a Dark and Stormy Night . . .

Oh, joy! The results are in from the annual Bulwer-Lytton bad openings contest, honoring (in a way) the Victorian novelist Bulwer-Lytton who first used the immortal opening lines: "It was a dark and stormy night . . ."


Here's a goodie by Warren Blair of Ashburn, VA. Not the grand winner but a runner up.

The wind dry-shaved the cracked earth like a dull razor--the double edge kind from the plastic bag that you shouldn't use more than twice, but you do; but Trevor Earp had to face it as he started the second morning of his hopeless search for Drover, the Irish Wolfhound he had found as a pup near death from a fight with a prairie dog and nursed back to health, stolen by a traveling circus so that the monkey would have something to ride.

You can read all the winners here and you can learn more about the contest at

http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/.

Out Early. Home Late

Even the mourning doves weren't up yet when I left yesterday to drive to Greenville, S.C.

And it was still foggy down at the pond, though a burning bush lit the way.

The luncheon in Greenville was lovely and it was fun to see some old friends, and some I knew from emails, and some entirely new.

Jill of Fiction Addiction (who also wants to know about that cliff-hanger) put on a fine event and I hope to return to her wonderful store when the Birdie book comes out.

It was a pleasant trip in beautiful weather . . . and I was delighted to be greeted by the full moon -- the Hunter's Moon -- as I turned into our drive around six in the evening.

And now for something completely different:I have a new word -- why didn't I know about steam punk before this and why do I find it so intriguing?

Do you all know what steam punk is? According to my friend Mr. Google, it's been around for over 30 years.

You can expect to hear more about steam punk in a future post!

Variable November Skies

Look down, look up -- there's always something to see . . .

(Click on the slideshow to go to full screen viewing -- really, it's worth it!)

The Award Game

Many thanks to Miss Yves, whose Photograff blog I always enjoy, for offering me a Creative Blogger prize! I've been trying to make up my mind what to do about these prizes -- they all require time to complete the requirements and they all ask that you pass them on to other bloggers.

Up till now, I've happily participated but, more and more I'm finding that many blogs don't accept prizes, just because they are so time consuming. So I'm going to do as they have and say thank you but I just can't play the award game any more. The daily blogging is time consuming enough!

All the blogs over there on my sidebar are deserving of prizes! I love visiting them, whether in North Carolina, Chile, Missouri, Austria, Ohio, France, California, Maine, Ireland, New Jersey, England -- you get the idea. I love this virtual travel. And I feel like these are my friends. So unconditional awards for everyone!!!

And now some recent photos . . .

This is a little old-timey filling station that some clever person has restored in the nearby community of Walnut.

An old headstone in the cemetery surrounding a no longer used church, also in Walnut.

The graveyard continues across the street and creeps up into the woods.

More autumn leaves -- these from Sweet Gum (Liquidambar) trees in the parking lot of our local Tractor Supply store. The shapes of the leaves and the wide range of colors are breathtaking! I'm going to have to think where we might plant one.