Its A Southern Thang.

I don't know about their art but while traveling through the south this winter I was told by a gentleman from Alabama that you can say anything you want about anybody as long as you say" Bless their heart" afterwards.... Also another friend from Alabama told me that if a good old boy sees you reading a book he'll say" You think you're better than me don't you?" I think that's art right their, I'll tell you what Bubber, I don't care who you are

Howdy, Y'all. Greetings from Dixie!

@ Robert James Hacunda - " Well, Bless yo' heart". Yo' about to find out what REAL ART is! It's a SOUTHERN THANG! :D (p.s. I can too read... I got Dick & Jane memorized).

There is a sign for when You're leaving Brooklyn that says' " Forget About It"

@ Robert - In Dixie we got a sayin' too - "Ol times, they're not forgot". We still remember the great injustice that was the War for Southern Independence. Just sayin'. LOL

You guys just need better coffee next time....

When I think of southern art I think of Magnolia, trees with moss.

I don't know about Southern art, but sometimes I think I was born on the wrong side of the Mason-Dixon Line I think I'd be more suited to life in the south...and I do thoroughly enjoy 70's southern rock.

Welcome to FAA!

I knew I was too far north once when I was in a restaurant and told the waitress I would like sweet tea with my meal. She hesitated, and replied, "Well, we have sugar packets and Sweet and Low you can put in it". I didn't know how to respond.

Pot Likker and Cornbread

Pot likker and cornbread
Or red beans and rice,
On Sundays, fried chicken
It sho' do taste nice.

Turnips or collards
It really don't matter
If you got either
Then who gonna holler?

Pot likker and cornbread make a mighty fine meal.

@Robert James- Bad coffee; good likker. Who needs coffee anyway? :D

Not about southern art... but..
I lived in Georgia for a time and was standing at a restaurant bar, waiting for a table and talking with some new friends. A gentleman, also waiting for his table, was standing beside me and listening. After a time, I heard him mutter under his breath... "Damn Yankees!"... I started to laugh... looked way up to all 6'++ of him (I am 5') and said..."Excuse me sir, I am not a yankee... I am a Canadian!" He replied, slowly .. stretching out every single word.. "Maaammm..... everything... north... of the ... Mason-Dixon Line.... is a Yankee to me!" and then he laughed... and we all had a delightful evening.

@ Greg, I just stare at them when they say that or sometimes I explain that it is just NOT the same!

You want good likker? I'll show you some good likker ...it's a southern thang....

I grew up in the South. Queens, N.Y. Then moved to upstate N.Y. The people on long Island still annoy me though with their long Manhattan drawls.

OK, Robert. You might got me beat, or I might got you beat. Here is a case of a case of stolen whiskey which is definitely pre-prohibition. The owner stashed it for his libation liberation during the prohibition. Being Southern, I am too lazy to Google if Pittsburgh, PA is south of the Mason-Dixon line. If it is North, I win; if it is South, you lose. The loser treats the other to a shot of good pre-prohibition rye. (p.s. I'm from Kentucky. Then why don't I like bourbon? I much prefer single-malted Scotch, or blended Canadian whiskey. What is wrong with me? Just another crazy Southerner, I suppose. )

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/03/22/john-saunders-charged-wit_n_2934989.html

@JC, yep, just ain't the same. I'm having a glass of real sweet tea right now. :)

So what is the difference ? is it how it is brewed?

Mark, not sure YOU have me beat seeing as I own that bottle of 100 year old whiskey and 6 others just like it...

@Robert - Well, I do got a bottle of Scotch purported to be stolen by the Desert Fox Erwin Rommel during WWII. Is that good enough provenance? (I might consider trading it for your 6 bottles of 100 yr old whiskey).

Short answer. The ingredients used; how its aged; how long it's aged; what it is aged in. Yes, it all makes a difference. What really makes the difference is your taste-buds. What tickles your taste buds is the best there is.

Sweet Tea is the house wine of the south. I am... American by birth, Southern by the Grace of God!

Well stated, Gina! :)

When someone says Southern art, no particular art or artists spring to mind, but dozens of authors do.

Thank you, Greg! :)

hmmm... Jenny, You are so right. We have the Morris Museum of Art in Augusta, Georgia, which is supposed to be the largest collection of Southern Art in the country. I'll admit, none of it is all that memorable, but maybe that will change in time.

Here is the link to the Morris Museum of Art website: http://themorris.org/

Well I am from the south, love the south, but.........New Orleans is basically a world of its own! Sort of a southern version of Jersey if I may. Our "drawl" is very different from other southerners,(not like hollywood portrays) more like, "WHO DAT!" My husband on the other hand is from Fairhope, Alabama, what a drraawwwllll he has. We can barely understand each other, which can be good sometimes! Now as far as southern art goes, I think we just all paint from who we are and what our lives were formed into. My art for instance is marsh and swamp wildlife. My father was a fur trapper and I grew up around the very things that I love and paint.

A little Southern cuisine anyone? Fresh picked from the garden.

Born and raised in Virginia, lived in South Carolina for years. I guess that makes me a Southern artist.

Southern artists: George Ohr, Walter Anderson (they have their own museums), and many others in MS.

Very nice rendering of cypress, MM (south'ners always go by two names or in your case initials). How appropriate you chose a subject symbolic and unique to the South. Hope to see more!

How about a little Southern lit? Or more 'zactly, a poem. The art well ran dry, so this is the best I can offer for now. (p.s. my spell-checker went CRAZY on this poem! EVER'THIN' was underlined in red!)

Southern Folk by Mark Wickham.

There's The Big-Folk,
(then they's reg'lar folk),
There's High- F'lutin' Folk,
(then they's simple folk).

There's The White Folk,
(then they's the black folk),
There's The Town Folk,
(then they's the cun'try folk).

There's All Kinds Of Folk,
('cause it takes all kinds),
But Then In The End...
(be they kith or kin),

tHeY's AlL jUsT fOlK..

AMEN!

As southern as it gets!

Martha Harrell - Well >blush< and hush my mouth! I had never heard of George Ohr; or Walter Anderson for that matter. Guess I need to do a little research. Echoing Phyllis Beiser (what? no middle name?), many of the well-known Southern artists were naturalists and painters of nature, particularly wildlife. One of my earliest sources of inspiration was Ray Harm, a Kentuckian (like myself) who mostly painted birds. I remember Audubon magazine from my childhood featuring many bird prints, mostly done by Southern artists. I will never forget the image of the Ivory-billed Woodpecker in the cypress swamp. I wish I could remember the artist's name. Search Google to see some beautiful images of ivory-billed woodpeckers. Impressive birds. Hope at least a mating pair still exist somewhere deep in some Southern swamp. If anyone out there is a photographer who captures a picture of one (or two), please feel free to post here first. We would be deeply honored, if you did.

Martha - Cormorants are pretty Southern too!

It's a Southern Thang - A Showcase of Southern Art.

Is it true south'ners depict and express what they love? Dey sho' 'nuf love a lot. They love good times, good memories, good food, good huntin', good-lookin' women, good manners, God's Grace, and a great place to live! So why not, Great Art?!

Dear Mark, I was born and raised in the south. I even returned to the south to live out my golden years. There is an easiness here, but why are you emphasizing some sort of strange english deficit as prevalent to the south? I'm not intending to undermine your discussion, but I find that detail very strange considering you masquerade, and quite well at times, as a thoughtful poet.

Dear Ms. McDonald. I appreciate your critique of my "style" of expression, as it provides me a venue to elucidate on the idiosyncrasies of the vernacular employed in my writing. I assure you it was never intended to offend. I suspected even before I checked your profile that you must currently reside in Florida. Florida is not considered a Southern state by Southerners, so it comes as no surprise that the language spoken there differs significantly from where I reside in Georgia. First, let me flatly rebuke and disabuse the notion that I am caricaturing and debasing the language. There is no one Southern form of spoken english but rather many regional dialects although they probably share many phrases and speech patterns in common. The vernacular I use is not an artifice, but one common to middle Georgia. I hear it everyday, and have absorbed into my subconsciousness until some has become part of my ordinary spoken speech. If I lived in Appalachia, or Texas say, it would probably be written quite differently. I, for one, find it to be endearing, rather than debasing. There is a melodious lilt to the speech phrasing which in part is due to foreshortening words and dropping ending consonants. The great and celebrated Georgian poet Sydney Lanier whom I admire greatly employed the same poetic device of writing English in the spoken form. I am sorry that it does not appeal to your sensibilities, but art is in the eye or ear of the beholder.

On a final note, I doubt one can dispute the greatness of the English playwright William Shakespeare. Shakespeare was writing/preforming for a common audience, and most likely, his actors had common accents as well, since acting was not a "respectable" profession back in his day. Probably when playing a lady or lord, the actor would ape a cultured accent, but his normal speech was most likely the Cockney slang.

The way I have always heard the explanation of what the common man's English sounded like in Shakespeare's day is that it would sound much like an Appalachian hillbilly faking an English accent. The English of the American South has more in common with Shakespearean English than the proper English the Brits speak today, and in that sense is "purer" and less adulterated. Not all English is the Queen's English, nor in the case of American English, spoken with a flat mid-western accent.

So I find myself in rather elect and rarified company in plying my art form of poetry.

Wow Mark I'm impressed, you just worked really hard to vindicate yourself. You're kind of smart. Congratulations.

Simple Tribute to the Uncommon Man

Ne'er finer nor nobler a man than he
Now standing tall and standing free
With feet of clay, but hair of air
Proud in spirit, yet humbly fair.

He 'twas but a common man
Yet more uncommon than,
At first it might appear.

He of whom I speak
In tones so meek...

The man was..
Sidney Lanier.

by Mark Wickham

Not considered correct in the Old South - nevertheless:

Ya'll - singular
All ya'll - plural
All Ya'll's - plural possessive

By Jove! I think he's (Richard Smith) got it! lol

Y'all is never singular in the South that I come from. That is just the way Yankees perceive it.
Here's another cypress for you.

Just want to wish everyone a Happy Easter weekend.

A rural southern landscape.

"Y'all is never singular in the South that I come from." It's a joke! I'm aware of the proper use of the term in the Old South and I'm also aware of it's frequent misuse, at least here in the southwest.

Hi Mark!

I'm an internet content writer/photographer from Nashville, Tennessee...aka "The South." My work reflects my passion for Southern living and focuses on Tennessee, Kentucky and the surrounding areas. I write about "Southern" living and food ("How to Make Chicken and Dumplings from Scratch" earns the highest residuals of any of my articles...lol!) I'd love your input on my photography and your thoughts on "if" you sense a distinctive "Southern" flair, or if you could detect this "style" if I hadn't mentioned it.

Blessings, Happy Easter, and "Y'all come see us now, ya' hear?" I'll leave the porch light on... ;)

PS--Your work is just beautiful--I just took a peek. :)

Y'all ready to hear some great Bluegrass? I will be posting a link to a song uploaded to Youtube each day next week from a live concert at Dauset Trails Bluebird and Bluegrass Festival held Saturday March 30, 2013. So, stay tuned while these boy's get their instruments tuned up for some Bluegrass jammin' and pickin' in the backwoods of Georgia! I know I can't wait to hear it again because I was too busy filming the first go 'round!

Its a way down younder in N'awlins, now that is a southern thang lol hello Mark, Souther Art down here in the deep south is influenced by Heritage and Culture of all creative artist of the south. Here in New Orleans, artist are also influenced by the music, food, and Historic Jackson Square where artist paint for the tourist and locals alike. Quite a few famous artist such as Audubon, Roland Golden, Degas, here are three famous artist of out times and they lived and where extremely creative becuase of the abundant secenic surroundings, the architecture and its nature (wild life). ,,,,,Thanks for posting a great discussion page.......Cheers, Michael Hoard

Tammy and Michael - Great posts and great sentiments, but, le's see y'all's great art! That is truly what this discussion thread is for - to showcase what Southern artists have to offer. In my case, I will be showcasing 3 Bluegrass bands next week - each with a distinctive sound. Hope you all enjoy it! Coming soon to a discussion thread near you! lol

It was a privledge to view your gallery and being from the south your work is influenced by the most remarkable gallery I have seen here on FAA in quite some time.. Bravo, Bravo, Bravo!!!! Cheers, Michael Hoard

Dear Discussion Contributors: I am considering wrapping this discussion thread into a Group called "Showcase of American Southern Art". I might be biting off more than I can chew at this point in time. Any comments or ideas?

I was born in the "Cracker" south, Florida. Not the "Yankee" south of Miami or Naples or St. Pete. Here is a South you'll appreciate

"Dear" Mark, There was ONE battle during the uncivil war between the states in Florida - The south won the battle of Olustee - there is a re-enactment every year. Yes - much of Florida was taken by the Yankee's after, but not the heart of the original settlers, mostly down the central spine of the state. Yep, they took the beaches - but they never quite got the goods on the Crackers, true Southerners all.

Hello Mark, I had started out in oil painting when I was in 6th grade, my 6th grade teacher saw I had this remarkable talent. For threes my 6th grade teacher in grammar school paid for everything so I could advance my talent. At time I knew my parents were unable to afford my supplies and her identity was held from me until I graduated from the 8th grade and then I was told. Every saturady I would go to an all girls school out by the lake and a Catholic Nun from the grammar school I attended taught me the european method of painting. I would paint from 8 am til 12 noon, then I would rush home to play baseball with my buddy's......

As I was turning out painting after painting I started to sell them and my parents had started asking me where was I getting money to spend and I told them I was selling my work to the teachers at school. Well my parents were not keen about that and they made me give the money back from the few sales I made and get my paintings back. At that time they thought I was too young to go commerical with my talent. Out of apprecaition of my 6th grade teacher for discovering my talent and advancing it I created a very large oil of an area in city park with oak trees. When I went into high school everyone thought it best I went to the only vo-tech Hight School here in New Orleans, I would go to art class in the morning for 3 hours and after noon 3 hours of high school academics. When I graduated from high school I landed my firrst job as a commercial artist at that time one of the oldest Department Stores here in the city called D. H. Holmes one of the oldest department stores in the south....established in the late 1800's.

Over the years I kept pace with my fine art until I advanced with the camera and use it as my canvas. Below are just a sampling of some of my work,....

Very glad to see some art being posted. And Michael your life story is an inspiration! Proper encouragement of youth provides youth with proper direction into adulthood. In your case it seems discipline was also strictly enforced parochially as well as parentally. It appears to have paid off handsomely. I suspect these values might be reinforced more laxly these days than when you were raised. We should all mentor the young if given the chance.

Roy- They made a beachhead but they never took the marshes. I sure do miss the "old" pre-Disney Florida of my youth before it became a tourist mecca . There are still some isolated spots where it still exists though.

Yep - I was born and raised in 'old' Florida - and I still live in a part that is not about to let the (un)civil war die. If you are driving down to MickeyMouseland on I-75, (be sure to fill up in GA before you cross the border or be met with the highest gas taxes in the nation), once you get past the politically correct welcome station - the very first heroic size flag you will see is not Old Glory the stars and stripes, but the Stars and Bars floating in the wind.

A Southern folk art tradition is crafting art from ready-made objects and brightly coloring them in primary colors. This is an example of a tree constructed from colored soft drink bottles to represent the stems and leaves and tin cans cut into a flower blossom. Examples of such art were proudly displayed outdoors in a garden for all to admire.

A little bluesy number called Foggy Harp Boxcar by Apostles of Bluegrass to tide you over. This goes out to a woman that I used to know.

http://www.myspace.com/apostlesofbluegrass/music/songs/foggy-harp-boxcar-54243303

Foggy Harp Boxcar

A lament for Uncle Fred and his moonshine still.

http://www.myspace.com/apostlesofbluegrass/music/songs/moonshine-still-54204118

Moonshine Still

@Mark, thanks for the generous comment, times have changed and with today's society, I do feel parents of talented children do promote there artist work sooner! This has been one of the best threads I have yet to participate here on FAA, thanks for posting! Your idea Showcase of American Southern Artist sounds great! Thanks again, Michael

Raw and real Delta blues -" Goin' Down South" on bottle-neck cigar box gee-tar.



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sfuFEDp5-Qg

Hello Mark Wickham,
You can find the Ohr museum and the Walter Anderson museum on the MS Gulf Coast, near Biloxi and Ocean Springs. Very pleasant places to visit.

Dogtrot houses were once common in the South. I'm sure a lot of families slept on that breezeway on summer nights. This dogtrot near Pleasant Hill, Louisiana, served as an impromptu hospital just after the Battle of Pleasant Hill.

...

Here is another dogtrot, although you have to look more closely to see that it is. It is known as the Autrey house and stands outside Dubach, Louisiana. In the back is the old Autrey family cemetery. This place is saturated with character and local history.

Lenora - Dogtrot houses were also common in Georgia. I think the reason for this floorplan was to separate the kitchen from the rest of the house so the kitchen wouldn't overheat the living quarters in summer. I will have to take some pictures of dogtrot houses in Georgia to share. Shotgun houses were also common in mill-towns. These houses had no hallway, let alone a breezeway. Just one room behind another. I also have a painting of a shotgun house I want to post.

Kathy - Okeefenokee Swamp 11 really puts me there. I am planning a trip later this year down there. Maybe I will get some good photographs.

I just took some photos today of the homestead of Tom Watson in Thomson, Georgia. He was a former vice-presidential nominee and a State Senator in Georgia .

Here is a brief bio of his political career:

In the 1890s Watson championed poor farmers as a leader of the Populist Party, articulating an agrarian political viewpoint while attacking business, bankers, railroads, Democratic President Grover Cleveland, and the Democratic Party. He was the nominee for vice president with William Jennings Bryan in 1896 on the Populist ticket (but there was a different vice presidential nominee on Bryan's Democratic ticket). Politically he was a leader on the left in the 1890s, calling on poor whites (and poor blacks) to unite against the elites. However after 1900 he shifted his attacks to Nativist attacks on blacks, Jews and Catholics. Two years prior to his death, he was elected to the United States Senate.

A Southern Garden.

How do you southern elitists feel about New Mexico ..... ???

Sad Announcement:

http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10152756170265574&set=a.393273725573.365745.668255573&type=1

Southern Idolatry by Mark Wickham.

Majestic 'Mater - thine most divine
You are the most regal on the vine.
You are the Southern Eucharist -
Your juices run like the blood of Chr'st
And your sweet flesh - 'tis most sublime.

Magi's 'Mater - more precious than gold
Mia 'Mater; Si 'Mater - you never grow old.
You're here but briefly - then you're not found
We long for you; we pray to you; all year- round
For 'tis your eternal beauty we wish to behold.

Other loves come; and other loves go
Those other loves - they just don't need mayo.
Oh, Those other loves are but just passing
Steadfast not; nor everlasting
Unlike 'mater love learned in'utero.

So if you could teach South'ners to give up pork,
And if you could teach South'ners to eat with a fork,
(Shudder, both thoughts which a South'ner abhores),
I think they would choose to become tomatovores.

So now that I'm done; stick me with a fork. (pitch-fork)

Kitsch in the Kitchen by Mark Wickham.

Kitsch in the kitchen
Knick-knacks on the shelves
Curios placed just so on the old piano
's how Southern gals 'spress 'emselves.

If they find a space empty
Antiquing they go
Come back with an armload
Of precious cargo.

It might be their memories
Or then again not,
But what does it matter?
It fills up that slot.

I like that poem. I was just thinking that I needed to make a trip to the Goodwill and Habitat stores one of these days.

@Mary Melinda (MM for short) - That is TOO cute! Those are my favorite places to shop too! (It's not just a girl thing). HAPPY SHOPPING! ;)

Hi Cathy Lindsey. I was just wondering... do you have any interesting stories to tell about Newton County? What is it's history? or her-story? Share your personal stories too. Always loved a good story. :)

Not just a Southern addiction to thrift stores! I love em too:)). As well as sitting in kitschy kitchens eating mater sandwiches but drinking unsweetened tea;)). Will be in Savannah in October, my first trip to the true South!

& fixin's by Mark Wickham

No meal's complete
Without the meat
But just as important as that
Is next to the meat what's sat.

The fixin's can be..
'bout anything you plea'(se)
It just has to be..
Com-pli-men-tar-y.

Put it all on your plate
Glop, glop, and glop, glop.
Then proceed post haste
To sop, sop, and sop, sop.

Mashed 'taters, sliced t'maters,
Corn pone, poke..
String beans, collard greens,
Sides sidle up to South'rn folk.

So no nixin' on the fixin's.
I'll take a second helpin' please.

@Karen - You just gave yourself away! - UNSWEETENED TEA! - HEAVEN HAVE MERCY ON US ALL! (p.s. - You better ask for UNSWEETENED TEA in Savannah, instead of just tea. Otherwise, you are in for a cloyingly SWEET surprise! SWEET TEA comes standard!)

A man newly ensconced into the Dead Southern Poet's Society you might take a shinin' to: Jake Adam York. Published works include: Murder Ballads, A Murmuration of Starlings, and Persons Unknown.

Abide

Forgive me if I forget
with the birdsong and the day’s
last glow folding into the hands
of the trees, forgive me the few
syllables of the autumn crickets,
the year’s last firefly winking
like a penny in the shoulder’s weeds,
if I forget the hour, if I forget
the day as the evening star
pours out its whiskey over the gravel
and asphalt I’ve walked
for years alone, if I startle
when you put your hand in mine,
if I wonder how long your light
has taken to reach me here.

For more: http://lareviewofbooks.org/article.php?type=&id=1559&fulltext=1&media=#article-text-cutpoint

The Whip-poor-will Soliloquy.



'Tis the will-o'-the-wisp
sings the poor whip-poor-will;
'Tis a sad song sung
for the ne'er-do-well.

So fare-thee-well
and for thee not abet;
'Tis a sadder song yet
for those we forget.

'O sole mio;
O' solo me..
que sera, sera;
c'est la vie.

Etude et solitude,
Solipsus Soliloquy.

~mark wickham

I love sitting out in the evening listening to the whip-poor-wills! Nice Poem ;))

A Sweet Southern Song by Mr. Mockingbird

Do you like your food hot & spicy? You might be a Southerner.

Leave it to a southerner to bring everyting back to the civil war , unjust , really. I strongly disagree with that lack of thought , mind set and insensitivity. Still living in the 1800s I see. I read daily ,especially history . Pick up a book ,I think some are sold At goodwill and yard sales. And wonder of wonder there are libraries in the south , I visit them often. Let's stick to art ,it's a safe issue you and I will never agree on any other subject.

My mama taught me: "If you can't say something nice about someone or some thing, don't say anything at all."
I lived in Tennessee, Mississippi, Alabama and Georgia.



I now live in southern California. God's country.

Dearest Mildred Chapman. Let me preface this by saying that I love your artwork. I hope everyone will take the time to view it. To address your concern in your post, I really do not see where the Civil War is the theme of this thread. It is all about Southern art in all it's expressions. To me that means painting, poetry, music, and of course, good food! I hope you find this discussion tasteful, as it is meant to extend the joy of Southern Hospitality to those who are perhaps not accustomed to it. So - Savour the flavor, and I hope nothing offered here offends you.

@Chuck Staley - What a beautiful print! Thank you so much for sharing! The setting actually looks uncannily like a location in Thomson, Ga I shot (sans the antique car and Southern beauty).

p.s. The SOUTH is not a geographic location; it is more an attitude than a latitude. lol

Hi Cathy Lindsey. I was just wondering... do you have any interesting stories to tell about Newton County? What is it's history? or her-story? Share your personal stories too. Always loved a good story. :)

Lots of movies and tv shows filmed on that square near that courthouse... Dukes of Hazzard, Head of the Night and currently Vampire Diaries. I moved to Covington, GA (Newton County) when I was 8 years old and live one town over now.... although I go to Covington to work everyday,

I'm not originally from the south but have grown to love my home of 20 years and it's beauty here in the Shenandoah Valley :)

Good Sunday morning, Cathy. That is an interesting bit of information you provided about your fair city of Covington. Perhaps it will inspire some to visit, or if not, at least visit your portfolio. Perhaps if they film another TV episode or movie, you can get a part as an extra. If interested, I can provide you with information on casting companies in Georgia. As you are probably aware, the bio-pic about Jackie Robinson, the movie "42" was just released Friday. It was filmed in part at the Luther Williams Field and surrounding parts in and around Macon, Georgia. So if you get a chance, go see it. There is also the town of Juliette, Georgia where the movie "Fried Green Tomatoes" ,among others, was filmed. It is a very small town and the whole town was the movie set.

Good morning also to Lara. I have to agree with you. The Shenandoah Valley is heaven on earth. Especially in the springtime, I bet!

My grandmother was born in Arkansas, my mother in Virginia. The family migrated north, where my mother married a New Yorker and had me before coming to her senses and moving back to the south, where I grew up in Florida. My dad stayed in New York.

Decades ago some of my New York family came south of the Mason Dixon line for a visit - I was living in Virginia at the time. Going out to dinner one evening, I was in the back seat of their car with a couple of cousins, Uncle was driving, aunt beside him. We pulled into a gas station to fill up, and uncle was fuming because the attendant was taking too much time filling the tank, washing the windshield, and checking under the hood. To stop his grumbling, Auntie said to Uncle, "Well, Daddy, you know we're in the South now, so just get used to it."

I am a southerner by heritage and disposition, if not by birth and, for me, the dichotomy has nothing to do with the War (properly pronounced with two syllables). It has to do with yankees coming down here to enjoy everything that is good about the South while incessantly complaining about the pace, criticizing our way of life and impugning our intelligence.

I thought I must have missed something since I didn't see anything in this thread about the Civil War. US Southern culture and art have been influenced by all of its history and the varied ethnicities of its people.

Ginny - Welcome to the discussion. Both my parents grew up in West Virginia (which was where the Western portion of the state of Virginia seceded from the Confederate States). They subsequently moved to New York seeking gainful employment before moving back to Kentucky where I was born. Talk about a mixed identity! But, I guess it just shows we are all one people after all - all creeds, races, religions, and sex orientation. We Southerners just take life easier and enjoy life more! hee..hee..

@MM - Echo that! That is what is rich about the Southern heritage. The diversity of backgrounds of the populace that have made it what it is. And we celebrate the South for the admixture it is, and will become. Long live the South in tolerance and understanding!

Thanks Mark! My cousin was an extra in Footloose, and I think by the time he got paid - he said it cost him money. It wasn't even minimum wage and he had to drive all over the place. He had a good time, and I guess that is what matters. Years ago when Heat of the Night was filming here I was waiting tables at a popular restaurant and ended up waiting on all the cast at some point. I also was a member at the same gym as Bubba. I also delivered flowers, at another job and got to go to the sets and trailers and such... wow, that was a long time ago! I was still young back then! I have 15 years until I can retire and move NORTH! lol...

My mom was born in Kentucky, moved to West Virginia, met and married my dad, who was from Iowa, then moved to Virginia where my sister and I were born. I've done a lot of genealogy work on my maternal line and it is so interesting to see how varied my own ancestors were. They fought on both sides of the American Revolution and the Civil War.

Dear Mark,

To a fine southern man I have come to know, and see. Be well, take care, and keep up those great peacemaker skills with all that humor!

Most sincerely,

Kelley

@Kelley - Thank you for your kind words. You have to leave so soon? Pull up a chair, sit a spell with me on the front porch. I have just composed a poem while on my front porch to tell you if you will take just a moment to listen:

the frogs and the crickets
all compete
to see who can shout
the loudest.

the whippoorwill will
wait until all is still
then with grace defer to
the mockingbird who
takes the song baton
then passes it along
from night to day's light.

You may leave now, with my blessings, but do drop by occasionally. The pace here is rather languorous, so there is no need to hurry back.
Mark

Like Jenny I don't think of any visual arts, but writers and of course all the amazing black music.
The deep south still freaks me out a bit. My best friend in kindergarten was black, her family had normal jobs, she went to college, built a good life, and I don't think she would have had that kind of life if she'd been born down there. It's no little thing. Sweet tea may or may not be better, but Alabama and Mississippi still have serious issues, the statistics are really bad. Also, they have us beat on the weather, that's for sure. I can't stand the cold anymore.

@Patricia - I cannot speak for Alabama or Mississippi. I am also somewhat at a loss for words when it comes to Georgia (I am originally from Kentucky). I will say this - Georgia (at least from what I have seen) is color-blind. I think that all the South is pretty much color-blind. It is more a matter of economic and educational opportunities than anything else. It affects poor rural black, white, and Latino alike. It is a mutual affliction. We do have good sweet tea though! It helps combat the hot weather!

:-)

I was reading a lead on a discussion tread where a genteman posed a question about southern art and his use of an unjust war I concluded it was about the civil war he was speaking of it's the ony one southerers recogize.I know that the civil was did not lead the tread . I see that statement has been edited, regarding"unjust war" I know what I saw.I have lived most of my younger life in the deep south and recently moved back and believe me that war isconstantly refought in the south and has been revised of course !

yeah, kinda, sorta as some of my in-laws would say. The southern landscape is completely different from other parts of the country, as is our approach to life and helping others, nice work, welcome to the site....I've posted my things over the past year and enjoy the discussions on the site

My Dear Mr Wickham , This is the last post I will do on this subject, I am sorry I got tread wrong ,it was on March 25 the statement was was made about old times were not forgotten and we remember the injustice of the war for independence . I got the idea that you were talking about the civil war. To me and my family it was a just war for OUR indendendence. As for the south being color-blind , I am at a lost of words , I live in Louisiana and have visited other southern states, and it has not changed a whole lot , except what the law requires . A law and bills can't change mens heart and mindset. LA, Miss, AL and parts of GA are still at least 20 years behind the nation. The people are less educated, proverty level is higher , less insuraced, lowest wages , less healthy and I could go on and on. I have lived outside of the south for many years , untill family matters brougt me back. The scenic sites , culture , food , what beautiful trees , flowers ,water ways and faces of the people is an artist dream. I have hope for the south yet . Because it's beautiful background has hid so much uglyness for so many years. In spite of this at times I love it and other times I hate it. I will visit your profile and view your work. I am sure it's great. Thank you for visiting mine and your kind words.

Thank you Mildred; and stay hopeful. Where there is hope, there is change. I have attended church here in the South where black & white & other races join hands and praise the same God that created all men and women equal.

Dear Ms.Mildred and Mr. Mark, Equal is a most perfect word!!

Dear Ms. Kelley and Ms. Mildred - Don't get me wrong! I'm not saying we live in a perfect world. Far from it.

Dear Mr.Mark, You haven't been misunderstood. Be good! :-)

Dear Ms. Mildred, I believe you must have seen most plenty in your life, many sweet regards to you.

Here is a huge old oak tree in Natchitoches Parish, Louisiana. It is a short distance south of the town of Natchitoches. The old, massive limbs grow to the ground and seem to bounce upward as they continue to grow.

Lenora - That tree looks like it is extending it's arms out to invite a kid to climb into it's bosom, or to invite an adult to set a spell under it's awning arbor to cool off with a glass of cold ice tea or lemonade on a hot summer day.

Bill Cosby - http://youtu.be/RO1kmfLmGRA
may have to copy and paste
HILARIOUS!

Dyan - Hardy Har Har!! Thanks for sharing this! It's sho' nuf' true! Got a good belly laff out of this! Hope they's other's do too! :D

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings - Maya Angelou

Precious

Southerners are so precious
they're the gem of the South
they got their quirks for sure
but that's what makes 'em so dear.

Their language has got
a special lilt of it's own
it flows languidly unhastened
off the tongue unchastened
in it's very own special tone.

Their minds have got
a skewed tilt all it's own
just so slightly off kilter
and a little bit skeltered
but not never sheltered.

A Southerner can charm
with his insults so sweet
your honor right off o' ya
and you'd ne'er know it.

So what can you say?
'bout a Southerner, but...
"Well, ain't he precious!"
Yup, that 'bout sums it up!

~the Precious

The Annoyance of Gnats (an Ode)

Verse 1:

Gnats are like flies,
except only smaller;
they get all in your face,
they cause such a bother.

Chorus:

Gnats in your face,
and gnats in your hair;
GNATS, GNATS,
and STILL MORE GNATS;
them gnats they just don't care.
GNATS, GNATS,
yet STILL MORE GNATS;
they make you just wanna HOLLER!

Verse 2:

They don't go after poo,
instead, they go after YOU;
GET GONE GOL'DURN GNATS!
Go find someone NEW!

Chorus:

Gnats in your eyes,
and gnats in your hair;
GNATS, GNATS,
and STILL MORE GNATS;
them gnats are EVER'WHERE!
GNATS, GNATS; LEAVE ME ALONE!
GET OUT DAMN GNATS; BE-GONE!

~the nattering nabob - Billy Bob

Slow-cookin'

Slow cookin' takes time,
as well as careful selection,
it takes time to prepare,
so's to be done to perfection.

In the South time moves slow,
that's why Southern cuisine is the best,
while the food takes it's time to cook,
the Southern chef takes his time to rest.

Be it bar-b-que pork, smoked long and slow,
or a whole mess o' poke, cooked until tender,
or a whole bunch o' roots, fresh dug w' a plow,
time is of the essence; to render food, anyhow.

So next time you're down South,
Take your sweet time to savor,
All the flavors the South has to offer,
Don't hurry yourself none, do yourself that favor.

~mark wickham

Mark Wickham...

I realize this is your special forum page, yet I would ask of you if your quote:

("Please post anything- paintings, poems, photography, short prose - it don't matter. Just so it's art that speaks to our heart - the heart of Dixie.) would allow me to participate with a very special ballad-poem of mine.

I write epic ballads as well as humorous ones. When I returned from Korea in 1953, I was stationed in Virginia, and North Carolina. After I was discharged I moved south with an eighteen foot trailer, from my folks home in Michigan. For nearly ten years I lived in North Carolina and Virginia, I found complete comfort and satisfaction with my surroundings. Many, many fond memories are embedded, not to be forgotten. The nature of those I came in contact with while there, led me to believe I would always be... and was, welcomed into their homes.

I recall one instance that occurred in Winnfield, Louisiana, while still in the service. It was while on special maneuvers for three months in 1955. There was a restaurant at the outskirts of this small town named THE GOAT PALACE. I frequented this eatery quite often. Much to the surprise of the woman and her two daughters, who operated the restaurant, I discovered, and thoroughly enjoyed the taste of chicory in place of coffee. It's normally served in a very small demitasse cup. When I asked why I couldn't have it in a larger cup, I was told that there were few people who frequented their establishment, who could drink it like coffee. The food itself and their hospitality was pleasure to enjoy. Very strange... yet, a discovery was learned just before our maneuvers operations was to come to a close, and I was to return to North Carolina. I learned from one of the daughters, her mother would like to have adopted me. A pleasant thought, but...

About a year ago I used the Web to locate information about THE GOAT PALACE and its owners. The only information I came up with was the father, mother, and one daughter were now deceased. Their only son, a pilot, was shot down during his military service in Korea. Of the second daughter.... there was no information. And... the Goat Palace? It seems no one locally now, know of it, and other information concerning it is available. I used Google Satellite to bring the restaurant area into view at ground level. There is nothing but desolate, shrub-covered ground, and a large tree in its place. The macadam area that was parking space in front of the large building/motel behind the restaurant, was now overgrown with weeds, yet visible. Sometimes the past should be left alone. It tends to dull good memories.

Anyway Mark, instead of over extending my privileges, I would welcome your decision to submit the ballad... THE WHITE ROSE. It is a bit lengthy, but you and other "Southerners" may still enjoy it.

Dabbler/YarnSpinner.

Robert - You are always welcome here. We Southerners love a good yarn spun and you are one of the best! So tell your tale. I know others besides myself would love to hear it. And feel free to contribute as often as you like. We like our flavors, so feel free to add yours to the pot.This gumbo was getting to be a one-note flavor anyway.

Just out of curiosity, did you begin writing lengthy tomes from when you were stationed in Korea away from home and your loved one? Did you save any love letters from way back when?

This poem goes out to Cathy Lindsey and Robert Jerore -

Shantytown by Mark Wickham.

The mills are shut down
But yet they still stand.
A poignant reminder
Of a time not so grand.

No, the work wasn't grand
Nor the houses their own.
But then folks had a job
And a place to call home.

Generation 'pon generation
They toiled in their trace.
From young'uns to ol' folks
They each had their place.

But then suddenly - BANG!
Like a shot; it was gone.
Shotgun houses still stand
To remind of times done.

Love S.Carolina...

Fallow Season

'tis the time for planting a crop of cotton anew,
to hitch up the plow-team of my two trusty mules,
to bust up the red clay, and turn over the rubble,.
to make earth green again; all verdant and fertile.

now it's time to lay back, and watch it grow on it's own,
all the furrowed rows have been planted; all true, straight, and narrow,
to grow straight and true takes a little weeding and pruning, true;
but now's not the time to break out the harrow.

now the time of harvest has passed,
the white bolls have all been picked,
now tis the time, to turn the stalks under,
red turned to white, and then turned to stubble.

~mark wickham

I once had a northener call asking me questions while on the job. As I proceeded to answer his questions, he commented slow down with that accent, I can't understand you. I had to laugh, thought everyone in Texas talked slow. Wanted to say I couldn't possibly slow it down any more, sir. :D

Dear Kim - P_l_e_a_s_e__ w_r_i_t_e__m_o_r_e__S-L-O-W-L-Y__n_e_x_t__ t_i_m_e__s_o__ I__c_a_n__ u_n_d_e_r_s_t_a_n_d__ y_o_u. :D

Kim... and Mark:

While engaged in year and a half affair with a young lass, in N. Carolina, we (her folks and myself) were sitting at a table eating supper. The radio was on, and a newscaster by the name of Jimmy Fiddler interrupted our conversations.

“Good evening Mr. And Mrs. North America, and all ships at sea… let’s go to press.”

Now Jimmy must have been able to pour out words at the rate of 200 per minute. I mean… only a northerner would understand. When the first break in his news cast came about, the father looked at me, and said: verbatim: “Boy, Just what to G D H--- did he just say?”

For the first time in my life I was called upon as an interpreter to explain to people who spoke English, what another person who spoke English, had said. It wasn’t until I lived the southern life for nearly ten years, did I understand the thought behind his question. One has to live the life to appreciate it.

I remember the very first words that came out of the father's mouth when we were introduced. I was still in the service then.

"Boy, you're a Damn Yankee aren't you?"

I was fortunate to have a sixth sense to not judge people by first contact. It was a moment like when my dad would try to look poker-face stern, and be very serious; the twinkle in the eyes gave everything away. Good memories... good memories.

Dabbler/YarnSpinner

@Robert - Love ya'; ya'll DAMN YANKEE, you! :D

Shantytown...

I knew of and saw many while in southern territory. Sad as it was, even those who loved toiling in the earth, even though it was share cropping, were never going to get ahead. "Big Pockets" always saw to that. The coal miners of the Clinchfield mines in the western part of Virginia were "subjects of the harness," and governed harshly as well. Worked their tails off looking forward to the day they could retire. Come the mandatory health checkup beginning five years before they could call it quits.

"Why mister, we cannot not hire you; don't you know you got Black Lung?" We can't hire no man in that condition. You don't need comin' back here tomorrow. We cannot put you to work."

So for the next five years, the beaten man resorts to "Scab mining" in fourteen inch veins for a small mining company. You didn't wallk back into the job, you literally crawled back to the end of the tunnel and then spent time on your shift, flat on you back on a dolly, picking away at a seam, hoping the slant of the vein would not turn loose a slide you couldn't get away from. Sometimes, their hopes were defeated. God Bless the little people!

************************************************************************************************************************

I'll finish up here with this.

To answer your questions regarding my interests in writing. I think I inherited my mothers ability to paint pictures with word rather than sketch. Drawing however was an endeavor I developed an interest in when I was about four year old. I am one of six siblings in my family. I was born and lived in Pennsylvania until I was ten. Our newspaper THE EVENING NEWS, out of Harrisburg, was my tablet. During that era newspapers had all kinds of border space as well as gaps between the illustrations of people dressed in the finest evening wearing apparel. The only pencil I can remember at that age, was jack-knife sharpened lumber pencil that Dad used at work. You probably know of the type… about three-quarters of an inch wide and one quarter of an inch thick. We didn’t have money for drawing tablets, nor fancy wood pencils. Erasures were out of the question. If you made a mistake, you spit on you finger, rubbed the paper until the line disappeared, or the paper dissolved leaving a hole in the drawing.

My first interest in drawing was when Dad drew an outline picture of a rabbit running; its legs full out in front and behind. It’s was one of those drawings you could complete with one continuous line, never having to lift the pencil from the paper. He would give me the pencil and told me to duplicate it. Now I did say four year old, and that may seem to many readers I am stretching it a bit, but I have memories dating back to certain incidents when I was eighteen months old. No, those memories were not developed from hearsay from other family members.

Well, I took that big pencil in my hand and tried again and again to make my lines do what Dad did. Each time I showed him the results, he would indicate where I could improve, and we would start over. Not once did he ever criticize me, or tell me I would ever become as good as he was.

As for mother and my connection; it was kind of special. I recall while in Korea I would ask a question that may well have off base considering where I was, but for some reason it seemed important to me to inquire. Whereas the letter took two weeks to arrive home from where I was, she had a letter on its way to me, giving me an answer, before she got a chance to read my question. My letter was still a week away from delivery back home. Spooky? No not really, I’ve heard tell these incidents can be equated with us as being soul-mates. At the time I never thought of it like that.

Funny… I should say, “At the time.” Thirty-two years ago I remarried. I wasn’t interested in doing a search for someone new, nor truthfully, was I interested in negotiating another relationship again. That’s a whole ‘nother story I need not go into. It just happened. It has been one of my unasked for blessings, that I certainly could not possibly have created to a “T.” We were both divorced and before we met, life as you might say…”went on.”

Getting back to “At the time.” This wonderful woman I married, must have found where my mother kept her intuitiveness, or she had her own, totally undiscovered. We have abbreviated conversations at times, without saying a word out loud. We discovered that when we first took trips together on my motorcycle. There was no hollering in my ear, or shaking me to get my attention, we seemed to have then, and still do, a direct connection. Now, that’s scary! It’s scary, yet a privilege I doubt will ever go away.

Man I got way to heck off of the trail somewhere back there. The subject was how did I get started in drawing. It developed from writing to my family. It progressed from Korea and continued when I went south to live. Give you one example, then I’ll hand this up.

I was working for the US Postal service as a carrier. I had two daughters by my first marriage. About the time Michelle, the first, was four year old, we both developed tonsillitis at the same time. I was twenty nine by then. You might wonder in awe, as you watch a juggler juggling four or five golf balls with one hand and doing a wondrous job of it. I’ll tell you… I was juggling two swollen tonsils as big as golf balls in the back of my throat, with my tongue. We both went to the hospital and surgery to correct our misfortune at the same time. Returning to work for me was not possible right away. For two weeks, everything I ate was like swallowing glass on the way down. Adults do not heal as quickly as children. Michelle could put away a chunk of meat without batting an eye.

Now comes the drawing, or should I say illustrating pictures with words. I was sitting in my arm chair attempting to finish a letter to my parents. The tonsils wer….. strike that; the healing was still in hurt stage, there were no more tonsils. I was working on what should have been the last page of my letter, when my youngest daughter Connie who was two, tried climbing up on the arm of my chair. Doing so she bumped the side of my face. The shock that went through me sent my hand filled with ball point pen up across the page, and left a big streaked smear of ink. Back then those pens were still relatively new in perfection; they leaked like stuck pigs, even if you weren’t using them. Now, I could have thrown the page away and started over, but the devil made me do it. I wrote a cover up…

“Hey Mom and Dad, I’m sorry for the big scribble on the paper, but you have to know, I still have two stainless tubes in my ears leading down to the Eustachian canal. The doctor used this method to remove those overgrown oysters. He operated through the right ear to cut away the tonsil on the left, and visa-versa through the left ear to remove the other. They have to be in for a couple more days, before he sees fit to remove them. Anyway… Connie didn’t do it to be mean, but she just climbed up on the armchair and blew into my right ear tube.” I signed off and mailed the letter the next day. I just felt goofy that night.

Truth about my tonsil removal is: I sat in a chair, like being in a dentist's office, a big wide tray in front of me. My throat was innoculated with novacaine to numb everything, and they were removed orally as a dentist would, working on a tooth.

Every letter I wrote home, mother always called my sisters, and would read it to them. The plot thickened, I surely didn’t see it coming.

My sister Eleanor a couple years older than I, always drove her daughters to school in the morning. By fortune or misfortune, she also gave a neighbor lady, who was a doctors assistant, a ride to her office as well. It was right on the way. “Babe,” as Eleanor was nick-named, passed on the seriousness of my operation and the near disaster of the ear tubes. “Did you ever hear of that type of operation while working with you doctor?”

“No, I haven’t, but I’ll ask him about it.”

The day following day, and forever there after the nurse ceased to ride with Babe to her office. For the life of me I cannot imagine why.

Well… that’s about the long and short of my writing desires catching up with me. I enjoy words, and I do have Dad’s gift for fertilizing pastures where there is promise of new growth. He was a farmer’s boy by birth, and knew how much BS it took to get a job done right. I guess some of it rubbed off on to me.

It’s getting late; I’ll put The White Rose in “first issue folder” to take care of tomorrow. Good night all…

Dabbler/YarnSpinner

Robert - Both of my Grandfathers were coal miners in West Virginia. This poem goes out in memory of them, and all the brave miners who face death squarely daily.

# 99 - An earthfarer's chanty.

My head has a stone,
There for all to see;
There in the churchyard,
But it doesn't hold me.

(Number ninety-nine
Lies deep in the mine).

My bones lie in rest,
Betwixt seam and stone;
As I lived, so I died,
Nor am I all a-lone.

(Number ninety-nine
Lies deep in the mine).

My tag on the mantle,
A reminder to kin,
Let this be a lesson,
Don't go where I've been.

(Number ninety-nine
Lies deep in the mine).

For you see, I'm a miner.
My days they were numbered.
Ninety-nine were alloted
Before I have slumbered.

(Number ninety-nine
Lies deep in the mine).

For you see, 'twas a number,
Not of flesh, nor of bone;
Just a pick and a shovel,
To hew that black stone.

(Number ninety-nine
Lies deep in the mine).

My heart is this mountain,
Now which I'm a part;
Inseparable are we,
It gave me my start.

(Number ninety-nine
Lies deep in the mine).

Many millennia hence,
Ash to ash, o'ers await;
But coal dust to coal,
Such is my fate.

(God bless this soul
arise Ninety-nine).

Now my soul has ascended,
From whence it descended,
For it now has transcended,
Once more most resplendid.

~mark wickham

Real southern art will always have either barbecue sauce on it, or at least the smell of pork fat about it. Say, wouldn't you think with NASA being a primarily southern thing, that one of them boys would have figured out how to get to space with only a $25 Walmart gift card, a roll of duct tape and some bailing wire. Im sure there would be a recliner and a can of Bud in there somewhere, too. Hey ya'll, watch this!

We're working on it Robert. Between Bud's of course! :D

By the way, where is Camak?

Robert Mason:
I hear you... NASA annd Space;

Back in 1952 my Dad, Mother, and youngest sister drove down from Michigan to an air base I was stationed at in Illinois. His car was a 1947 Frazer. It appeared able to make the trip. It was Sunday, a 100-plus degrees and humid like you wouldn't believe. We drove around a bit. A bit is right. Somewhere distant from the base, the fuel pump diaphram gave out. Along the roadside Dad got his tool box out of the trunk. He with dress clothes, and I in clean Khaki uniform spent the rest of the afternoon attempting to turn the diaphram slightly and replacing it. As luck would have it the rubber was so depleted, we ended up with nearly postage stamp size material. We Jerore's were not to be defeated... sacrificing the only spare inner tube he had, a new diaphram was cut and stretched into place. The whole proceedure of that operation was completed with two pliers, and a jacknife. That included removing and replacing the pump. Yes, the pump lasted the trip home and for many miles after, until Dad got rid of the vehicle.

Since that episode, I have thanked the Good Lord time and a again, for having the father that was given to me. There have been many instances where money was an option that I did not have. Dad always said, "It ain't no good now it 's broke, so have a go at it, and If it can't be fixed... it's still broke." I would wager... eighty-five percent of the time we would make it work, if only temporarily.

I knew I had the gift when early in my first year of marriage, the automatic timer of the wife's wash machine, stopped in the middle of a wash. Without it, nothing else was going to function. I priced a timer at the nearest appliance repair shop; I didn't have eighty bucks to pay for a new one. Son... if you aint never tore a sealed timer apart without knowing what it was you were going to find, you are fortunate. Layer after layer of discs with thin copper contact strips, each with a hardened contact button on the end of it. Ever so slowly I remove the strip from its mooring and punched out the remainder of the burned contact. Cutting the head off of a brad-nail, I peaned it in position and placed the strip back where it belonged... reassembled the timer, and returned it to its designated position. My wife got about six months wear from it before I had to do the task all over again. By the time it wore out again, I had money to get a new machine.

Defeatism is an offering... Overcoming the thought of defeat is privilege one has to work at.

Dabbler/YarnSpinner

#99; A beautiful poem Mark:

You have a fine way with words also.

As for city folk who complained about how their anthracite, or bituminous coal burned...
They need spend ten minutes with a pick and shovel, in a black hole.

Dabbler/YarnSpinner

Catherine Howard...

I enjoyed you story. Your ability to stand tall (5') to this Southerner gentleman proves to me... if you don't tend to a fire right away a spark will go out.
I found some of my best friendships occurred from the ability to seize the moment and follow through.
Social boundaries do not apply among friends and good acquaintances.

Dabbler/YarnSpinner

I agree, if its broken, you may as well try to fix it...but if you can't fix it, you ought to blow it up because that's fun.

Maybe you're right Robert, but I never graduated beyond caps, and small fire crackers. My brother once set off a medium size rocket from our front porch. Theoretically, it should have gone across the street and exploded over a plowed field. Theory got shot all to H--- when we saw the darn thing cross the street... do a one-eighty, and come back to explode on the porch. "The best laid plans of mice and men.... Fortunately no one got hurt, scared real bad, but not hurt.

Dabbler/YarnSpinner

Mark... with your blessings, this is my contribution to "It's a Southern Thang"

It’s said love cannot be contained by boundaries. A love so strong will not be denied, even if it has to transcend boundaries of eternity. Such was an event that occurred during this nations Civil War of 1861-1865. In 1940, this story was repeated for the last time to 16 year old Sarah by her 98 year old Great-Great Aunt. Now, it's the year 2000, and my wonderfully-imagined friend Sarah, at age 76, has passed this story on to me. Somewhere, I'm certain, the roots of this story lives on.

The White Rose

Summer breezes waft the porch, caressing two women on a swing...
A fragile old woman crocheting, and a young girl with freshness of spring.
From a lattice enclosing the porch, drifted fragrance of Morning Glories;
Sarah sat anxiously waiting, for one of Auntie’s stories.

The elders hands worked a hooked-needle, and a length of thread,
Chaining one loop to another, creating a beautiful spread.
"Auntie don’t you tire of that? I would if it was me."
"Land sakes, no child, it’s relaxing as can be."

Auntie looked to Sarah, ”there’s something on your mind I’m sure.
You’re getting mighty fidgety, and I’ve seen that look before.”
“Well, I am getting restless... you could tell me a story I suppose.
Let’s walk in the garden, you can tell me about the White Rose.”

Auntie paused her task... for an instant she seemed to stare,
For a very brief moment of her surrounding she was unaware.
“Gracious child, how many times has it been?”
“I guess I don’t remember Auntie, but I’d like to hear it again.”

Putting her crocheting aside, Auntie arose from the swing,
Stopping at the porch rail, to listen to a bluebird sing.
“For several years she’s nested, in that little house in yonder tree.
At times she’ll perch right close by, to sing her song for me.

She’s got a brood I know... keeps her busy all day long,
Yet she never fails to take time, to sing her cheerful song.
It should be like that for us folk, that’s what life’s all about.
We too, should take time, to let music in our heart sing out.”

They walked through a rambling garden, amidst flowers of radiant hue,
Smelling sweet scented blossoms, and picking a weed or two.
The path led to a reflecting pool, where gold fish and some of white,
Swam to the surface to greet them, much to Sarah’s delight.

Fetching crumbs from her apron, Auntie cast them to the fish.
"Hold out your hands my dear, you may feed them if you wish."
Beyond the pool was an alcove, covered with vines of the rose.
Within this shaded sanctuary, they would seek comfort and repose.

They entered into coolness, of the sheltered retreat,
And seated themselves upon a bench, away from summer heat.
"These roses are very pretty, their color’s so beautiful to behold.
Won’t you tell me that story, I never tire of it being told."

Auntie picked a full rose; memories clouded her gaze.
She recalled a distant past; a time of unpleasant days.
She was only eighteen then, in a time of civil strife,
Northern objections to slavery, brought woe to Southern life.

“It was 1863; North and South were at war.
Lincoln’s Proclamation, was partly, what the Union was fighting for.
During this time of conflict, cannons roared and shots rang out.
Great love revealed itself, as the North put the South to rout.”

From her mansion loft, a young girl watched a battle unfold.
Horror of the scene below, brought terrible fears to behold.
A mounted soldier in Union blue, fell wounded during battle;
She tried to stifle a cry, as he toppled from his saddle.

With a loyal servant, she retrieved him into her house,
Placed him on a goose-down bed, and cut away his blood stained blouse.
A bullet pierced his shoulder, she cleansed it as best she could,
A poker seared his flesh, to end bleeding if it would.

She sat beside him during his coma, cooling his fever’s rage;
While holding back tears, for the young man so near her age.
The conflict continued, while slowly drifting away,
Then quite came to the countryside, she prayed that it would stay.

Evening shrouded the house; in a candle lighted room so dim,
He 'roused from a death-like trance; she was seated beside him.
“I’ve died and gone to Glory, Death you’ve been kind to me.
Only in heaven is it possible, to see an angel of such beauty.”

“Hush; it isn’t so, you’re alive, and so am I.
You’re nowhere near God’s heaven, it’s apparent you did not die.”
While his wound healed; love blossomed between the two.
A soldier from the north land, and southern beauty with eyes so blue.

Their bond grew stronger, his loyalty to service stronger still.
“I must return to my unit, and to a duty I must fulfill.”
Hence, she walked with him to a dusty road, that passed beyond her lane.
He kissed her softly upon her lips, his heart was wracked with pain.

From a pocket he took a penknife, to cut a flower so divine,
A pure white rose, growing wild, along a fence rail vine.
Placing it in her palm, he drew her close in tight embrace,
Kissing tears one by one, streaming down her lovely face.

”I shall return after the war, when there’s no more tears or strife.
I'll shall come back to you, and ask you to be my wife.”
She watched him out of sight, her rose clutched in hand,
Her shoulders shook, as tears fell to the roadway sand.

She placed the flower in water, it thrived and grew fine shoots,
Then planted it in a remote garden, where it soon developed roots.
The war seemed to last forever; he sent letters faithfully.
She wrote to him about the rose, how beautiful it was to see.

A letter: October ‘64. “Dearest, I miss you deeply in my heart,
I’m so weary of this bloodshed, that keeps us torn apart.
The purpose for which I’m fighting, seems distant and unclear;
Men are dying, or going home, to those they love so dear.

In these mountains of Shenandoah, it’s difficult to understand.
What good can come of conflict, that devastates a land.
Our Eighth and Nineteenth Corps, were routed this very morn,’
The mood throughout my unit, is one of great forlorn.

We’ll march forthwith to Cedar Creek, to rally against the foe;
There, another battle will rage, causing more grief and woe.
No matter what my fate will be, it’s you I think constantly of.
Until we are together once more, I send a token of my love.”

His letter was signed with a flourish, it was as he had spoken;
At the bottom of the page, was a drop of blood as a token.
Winter came, then warmer days, Spring encompassed the land.
A blood stained, crumpled envelope, was delivered to her hand.

”Dearest, if you receive this, good news it will not bring.
I’ve carried it over my heart, which for you is ever aching.
A soldier going into battle, dreads this fateful day...
If felled by an enemy bullet, his letter is sent on it’s way.

My Darling, please bury this letter... near the rose, in the sand.
Come Summer when flowers bloom, I know you will understand.”
Auntie’s story ended here, tears welled in her eyes.
"Walk with me child, I’ll show you why I cry."

Continuing along the path, they entered a run down place.
"It was here many years ago, I last looked upon his face.
The country road is over there, that took him away from me,
Over here,” she motioned, “is where the rail fence used to be."

“And in this clearing"... leading Sarah by the hand,
"Is all I have of his memory, still growing in the sand."
With sunlight bursting all about, it stood majestic before their eyes,
Growing wild and thriving... a white rose bush of enormous size.

Sarah was overwhelmed, strong emotion filled the air,
She approached the plant before her, with curiosity and care.
Gently exploring blossoms, she opened several wide,
To gaze upon a miracle of love... each had a red stain inside.

In memory of Sarah
Dabbler/YarnSpinner

I noticed your brief query concerning Camak, Cathy L.
I had to stop to think for a moment... I remembered I had a viewer from there myself.
A wonderful thing... Google Satellite's capability.

Camac, Georgia appears to be a small "sleeper" town due west of Augusta.
Take Interstate 80W. away from Augusta, until you come to Route 20 south.
Driving a short distance, you will pass right through it.
As I mentioned it's small... a railroad runs through its center.
Many buildings lining the road paralell to the tracks, appear to be empty... deserted.
Other houses give an impression of a quiet neighborhood, but occupied with friendly people.

The way I see it... if you got a "viewer of your art" from a small town like Camac, Ga.,
there has to be someone there who appreciates art for what it represents.

Small towns are like worn books that no one wants to read...
You can't judge their contents by the covers, for...
Inside may be one, or even several very interesting storys.
Maybe someone there will buy your best piece of art.

I sorta' mentally waved as I breezed ghostly through its streets
Said howdy to anyone who might have seen me passing.
I like to leave a good taste in their mouth...
I may want to go back there again one day.

Dabbler/YarnSpinner

Confederate Remembrance Day

The blue sky turned savagely dark,
lit only by musket's flares bright,
and illumined by lightening spears.

As the grey sky shed her tears,
she did hear the cannons thunder,
as they rent a country asunder,
far off in the distance of time...

'Twas a distant time where...
the battle cries of great glory,
battled cries unto the skies,
with greater anguished gore.

Remembered once more,
'twas too tragic to ignore,
'twas a time to deplore-

'twas the Civil War.







~mark wickham

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=4878125317652&set=a.4878115757413.1073741833.1433091858&type=3&theater

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=4878125917667&set=a.4878115757413.1073741833.1433091858&type=3&theater

@Robert Jerore - Maybe I am getting too emotional in my old age, but your poem "The White Rose" moved me to tears. It is a rare work of art that can bring about such a strong reaction. And how fitting that you chose to publish it right before Confederate Memorial Day. Well done, Sir! Epic in scope, symbolism, emotive power. Truly EPIC! You must have sat back with a satisfied smile when you finished this one, and said to yourself "Damn, it's good! Damn if I can't write good!" :D :D

Dear Robert Jerore, 'The White Rose' is an astounding story. It reads of people at their best while making tragic decisions, but in particular, sheds a light on women when they walk their best...

Thank you both for your comments. I have to explain about my writing though. When I start a ballad or poem, I have no way of knowing where it will take me. I do not plan my work. I have a "ghost writer" in a different manner than the usual meaning of such. I just sit at the key board, or in the case of The White Rose, sit with pencil and pad, with a desire to put something to paper... I have one heck of a time keeping up with the thoughts that generate. I never plan, nor do I know what the outcome will be.

True after I have the "bulk" of the poem/story is on paper/computer, I critique, correct, and rewrite. So you see... I had tears in my eyes as well when this epic was finished. Do I pat myself on the back? I'm afraid I can't... I am only the vehicle that carries the message, not the motivation.

None-the-less, WE... "G.W." and myself thank you.

Dabbler/YarnSpinner

An addendum:

When rewriting and critiqueing an epic ballad... I do research an era for facts to make a story plausible. Other than that I'm like a boat in the water with no rudder. I just go with the flow.

Dear Robert Jerore, Very cool! I look forward to your next drifting...

Some dreams, and pleasant thoughts will always to be remembered.

I posted this under your Pegasus illustration in your webpage.
I wrote it long ago.

Pegasus
.
Come ride with me troubled one;
Forget your distress and woe.
I’ll carry you to a fantasy land...
A place where troubles can’t go.

We’ll gallop in warmth of sunshine,
High o’er fleecy clouds,
To a place of comfort and happiness,
To shed your worrisome shrouds.

We will flee for carefree moments,
Then our flight must end.
I’ll return you to your earthly ways,
And things you have to tend.

Remember... when you’re burdened,
I’ll be waiting here once more,
We will fly away to a fantasy land,
On a distant daydream shore.

Dabbler/YarnSpinner

I'm found on Facebook also.

Dear Robert Jerore, Thank you for such great words to my Pegasus!!

Gallery - SAVANNAH - City of Strange Sights, Sounds, & Smells

Sweet Savannah with all it's shenanigans.


https://www.facebook.com/ProudClarion/photos?collection_token=1433091858%3A2305272732%3A69&set=a.4882937397951.1073741835.1433091858&type=1&uploaded=14

A Mountain of a Man

I met a man from Tennessee,
a man who once stood so tall;
As tall and as proud as he could be,
like the hills 'pon he once stood;
that is, 'til he took the great fall.

He joined the Marines,
at a quite tender age;
to see the sights he'd ne'er seen.
His country sent him to Iraq,
where there he saw e'er so much more,
than e'er he had e'er bargained for.

While he was in Iraq,
he fought 'til his luck,
took a turn for the worse.
Iraq. Bad luck. It became his curse.

Suffering wounds down below,
from the service 'twas mustered.
His return back to civilian life,
was more than he could muster.

For the Desert-Storms there,
made his soul turn to dust;
so that upon his return,
he had no where to turn.

Now all that's left him,
is a medal of purple valor;
A colostomy bag;
memories that nag;
And what's worst;
-a ghostly pallor.

A shadow of his former self,
He is now but a ..
mountain reduced to rubble.

~mark wickham

A Road Scholar {also - A Gentleman and A Singer}

I chanced upon a gentleman,
many titles was he known by;
Street bum; worthless scum;
and also called a vagrant.
But to me he was a king,
he was the King of the Road;
he was a breath of fresh air-
most fragrant.

He said he couldn't linger long,
just long enough to play a song;
a song that had no title.
He played me his song,
on a uke long past gone,
existing only upon-
pure mettle.



{Raleigh and Spencer alone in this town}

{There aint no more liquor in this town... }
{There aint no more liquor in this town.}

{I'll pawn you my shoes for a bottle of booze}
{Drink it and lay right down and die}

{I can eat more chicken than anyone can fry}
{I can tell more low down lies}

{I can tell more lies than the stars in the skies}
{Never get to heaven when i die}

{Eat more beans than you can cook in a week}
{I'll eat em and lay right down and die}

{Trade you my life for a big piece of pie}
{I'll eat it and lay right down and die}

{You can stomp on the flowers that grow roun my grave}
{Watch them bloom and rise again}

He said he came from Brooklyn way,
hopped a freight train 'stead of a bus;
He's on his way to Bakersfield to stay,
at home for a while,
where there'll be no fuss;
and spend some time,
with his Mama. Yus.

~mark (the knife) wickham

The following anecdote was created because of a real life situation. Having carried mail for a little more than five years in Richmond, I found many situations to be funny, unusual, and very compromising. Many had to be dealt with finesse. I have, over the years, heard many comments about the Mailman’s job being easy. For the would be applicants who think anyone can do the job, I have the following comments. This poem should have been titled "Southern Heat." Instead I added it as a sub-title.

Mailman
(Southern Heat)

Ya' wanna' be a mailman?
It’s not what meets the eye.
Let me tell ya' of my experience in '64,
One day in a month of July.

It was God All mighty hot, an'...
I was sweatin' from head to toe;
I was cravin' for a cold beer 'bout then,
But still had couple hours to go.

Well... I parked my truck 'long the curb,
In a project on Royal Avenue.
I was greeted by two tow-headed kids;
He was 'bout four... she was 'bout two.

“Hey Mr. Mailman... see you got a box;
Can I carry it for you?”
“Well, Hi ya'self... no thank ya' buddy;
It goes to address 422.”

“Hey! That’s where we live;
Can we go knock on the door?
My Ma will be glad to get that,
She’s been waitin' three weeks or more.”

“Sure, go ahead, knock on the door,
I’ll be there soon as I can.”
With his runny-nose sister tightly in tow,
Down the toy-littered sidewalk he ran.

When I approached the right address;
Only a screen door blocked my view.
Outside the kids were knockin' and yellin',
“Hurry Ma, he’s gotta package for you.”

My jaw dropped... 'bout a foot or so;
My eyes bugged out of my head.
This young thing... in on'y a cotton slip,
Made my feet turn suddenly to lead.

She was barely five foot tall,
'n' more than amply endowed.
To say she was only a forty-two,
Was bein' conservative, I allowed.

“Hellooo there,” she cooed to me,
In her syrupy, southern voice.
I searched for somethin' intelligent to say;
What I blurted was an embarrassin' choice.

“You got two cute knockers, Ma'am...
My tongue swelled up in my face;
I tried explainin' about her kids;
The two runnin' all over the place.

The more I said, the worse it got.
She smiled and offered iced tea.
“No thank you Ma’am, I got feet in mouth,
There’s no place for the glass, you see.”

Quickly I backed on out of there,
After givin' her the mail.
Had my brain shut down completely,
I might still be servin' time in jail.

Ya' see friend, there are pitfalls.
This job’s filled with stress 'n' strife.
I suggest you find 'nother occupation.
One not so hazardous to your life.

Dabbler/YarnSpinner

@Robert - Keep 'em comin'. :D :D

I Saw the Cross of Jesus

I saw the cross of Jesus,
in a pork rind the other day;
upon it's sight, my eyes welled up,
with tears, I began to cry.

To this day, I'll never know,
if the thought of Jesus, dying on the cross;
is what brought the tears, or if it was,
the pork rinds dipped in hot sauce.

~mark (Bible-believin') wickham

~~true story (swear to God).

This discussion is too antagonistic for me. You guys need to chill with a glass of scotch, rye, or bourbon and listen to some blues

The Queen's Gambit Declined

Once the proud Royal of the River,
this matronly dowager has become,
dowdy and seedy in her decline.
Though still primped and pretty,
she has lost that noble, regal shine;
unseen are the barnacles on her under-belly.

Her visage now is merely meant to entice,
of visions of pleasures more naughty than nice.
Now a bordello and floating gambling barge,
She'll take your money, Honey; or even your charge.
Can her comportment ever regain it's lustre?
Or is that something even this Queen cannot muster?

~mark (the lark) wickham

~~Happy Mother's Day, Savannah

This is a sweet sentimental picture to share for a Mother's Day tribute. In this case, it is a substitute mother.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10201113687072559&set=a.10201113686752551.1073741854.1480582007&type=1&theater

Mark:

I can appreciate the effect the "Queen" had on you. You spoke well of her.
I hope you don't mind. As you know... Queen courted every one.
I would like to add a few words about her too.

In Memory of the Royal of the River

Yes… I knew the Queen
She stood out from all the rest
Though she wasn’t upper class
What she offered was the best

She courted and cherished
Every man she knew
Noblemen, Dappers, gamblers,
Even a Statesman, or two

She was a beauty on the river
Yes… I knew the Queen;
Though squat and broad
She was a sight to be seen.

She required more support
Than the average of her kind
But what caused men to adore her
Was the action of her behind.

She was swift as a sturgeon
When there was need to be
Yes… I knew the Queen
She even courted me.

Well stacked she was;
Able to put on a show.
She belched louder than most man
You would ever chance to know.

Alas her time came unexpected
Her girls picked up the pace
Divesting men of their money
Before Queen went down in disgrace

On the day she hit rock bottom,
A dark storm caught her by surprise
‘Twas a sad sight to witness
She disappeared before my eyes.

Yes… I knew the Queen
Her memories still bring a shiver.
I’m proud to let you know,
She was the finest Queen of the River

Dabbler/YarnSpinner

Very stately poem, Robert. The Queen should feel honored.

The Goat Man Cometh © Mark Wickham

The Goat Man calleth,
"Heey Yaahh; HEERE GOATS!"
and the goats answer back-
"BAAA, BAA!, Baaa, Baa!"

Then the goats they cometh-
the buck goat in the lead;
In single column they run,
up the curved path to feed.

Once the goats are well sated,
it's time for to hitch 'em up;
All the goats to the wagon,
into the town to go up.

The Goat Man packeth,
Provisions stored; he taketh;
the groats from the land,
and cheese from the goats maketh.

To town, the Goat Man cometh,
with the goats in the lead;
with all his chill'uns in tow,
for his brood he must feed.

The Goat Man calleth,
"Heey Y'all; HEERE FOLKS!"
and the folks answer back-
"HAAAY, YAA!, Haay, Yaa!"

Now ev'r ones happy,
They got all that they need;
Goats, town folks, chill'uns,
The Goat Man dun succeed.

Don't have any goats around here but we have a flock of chickens, some of whom are named after the characters of the TV show Designing Women that was set in the South. This is MaryJo.

Hi MaryJo. We have chickens down home here too. Fac'o'matter is I almost did a Colonel Sander's on one of your kin with my car just yesterday. She decided to take a leisurely walk across the car tarmac. Silly bird-brain decided to go jay-walkin'!

Why did the chicken cross the road anyway? lol Our chickens have to stay penned up. We are in the city and not allowed to have livestock roam "at large."

Jesus Come's A'Callin' © Mark Wickham

If you won't come to Jesus,
Jesus'll come to you;
He'll come in his Glory van,
To redeem all of fallen Man.

Don't let Him ride on by,
Don't let Him pass you nigh.
Let Him stamp your ticket;
Now, don't you go miss it,
Catch that big bus to the sky.


https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=4897173633848&set=a.4896922267564.1073741836.1433091858&type=3&theater

MM Anderson:

It's my understanding hens are now starting a new movement for equality, and consideration for the work they do.
They claim they being misused, and abused. There may be some truth to their plight.

The Hen And Rooster

The rooster was complaining to the hen,
“You used to lay twelve eggs a week, now it’s ten.”
She cackled, “It’s nothing I lack,
So get off my back,
You’re always on it when I get the yen.”

Dabbler/YarnSpinner

Marc:

Can you tollerate another epic/ballad poem?

On a hill overlooking a quaint village, sits a large white Victorian house.
In the garret of this three-storied abode, a young woman is tidying the spacious room.
While examining a trunk, and family heirlooms she is about to venture on an extraordinary journey.


The Attic


Wet leaves carpet the ground in glistening, golden arrays,
giving notice of winter coming, and end of autumn days.
Starlings on barren branches, huddle against the chill
while ashen clouds hasten above the mansion on the hill.

In the attic loft, are heirlooms from years gone by,
Laura arranges the trove, then rewards herself with a sigh.
Time passes quickly; her watch shows nearly three,
she drops her cloth upon a table, near fragile cups for tea.

Beside a sizable trunk, she eases to an oval-braid rug;
a book thereon holds an envelope, curious she gives it a tug.
Handwriting is faint; no post date can she see;
opening it she gasps, "It’s from Grandmother, written to me!"

Dearest Laura... it read; at once she feels a presence;
as she continues to read, the attic fills of her essence.
In comfort of this sanctuary, Laura cherished each word,
yet her eyes tire, she nods… then softly her name she heard.

"Laura... Laura" she called, lowering her teacup so aromatic;
grandmother is seated before her, amidst treasures of the attic.
The trunk is open, a fine gown is draped o’er her knee,
stroking its lace she recalls, thoughts only she can see.

"John was so handsome, in his uniform he looked so tall,
it seems we danced forever, that night at The Cinderella Ball."
Placing the gown on a hobby horse, she lingers touching its mane,
then turned once more to the trunk... outside it begins to rain.

She showed Laura an ivory brush, a mirror trimmed with gold-inlay,
"… and this was grandpa’s pocket watch, when he retired he put it away."
Heavy and ornately engraved, its crown worn smooth with time.
"upon the hour or half past, it would play a most beautiful chime."

Winding the watch carefully, Grandmother placed it upon a table,
"it will chime softly, Laura… that is, if it’s still able."
In an album with loose pages, some pictures damaged or missing,
a photo of younger grandparents, by a wedding cake kissing;

Other pictures of usual kind, like Uncle Charles and his favorite car,
Laura didn’t recognize him, he was photographed from afar.
"Here’s our first house on 9th street, taken in our back yard;
that’s Grandpa in his work clothes... my that man worked so hard."

There were stamps from a prized collection, a porcelain doll and teddy bear,
a pinafore dress of faded blue, and ribbons for a little girl’s hair.
Rain pelted the windows, lightning flashed and thunder roared;
a tiny box in grandmothers hand, fell to a barren floor board.

It’s cover came off, an object spilled out... a ring exquisitely made!
Laura noted in pallid light, its brilliance would never fade.
"It was a gift to my Mother in Scotland, part of her dowry in '62;
it has been in my possession many years… I want to give it to you."

Laura wanted to protest, but soft fingers pressed to her lips,
assured she would be passive; grandmother took a few more sips.
She gestured across the loft… toward a toboggan and wood skis;
then pointing to a ten-gauge double-barrel, she chuckled slapping her knees.

"A hawk got into our chicken pen, Pa was going to shoot it dead.
he pulled a trigger, both barrels went off, the hawk flew over his head.
I don’t recollect he hit the bird, but his shoulder got a terrible bruising;
we kids dared not laugh at him, ‘cause he never thought it amusing.

That wicker-buggy was mine; the hobby horse belonged to my son;
he passed away when nearly ten, in the winter of '31.
It was a bad year for influenza... we just called it the "Grippe";
Toby was my fourth child," she sighed and took another sip.

Heirlooms filled the attic, so many it was hard to recall;
magazines, sculptures and clocks, some tall… some were small.
Reality faded… Laura crossed a barrier during this spell.
names and places were familiar; was she dreaming… she could not tell.

They never left the attic realm, yet regressed a score of years,
Laura was introduced to kinfolk, amid laughter and happy tears;
She rode in an old sedan, its seats covered with fine Mohair,
tires threw stones against the fenders; and dust riled the air.

An Iceman carried ice, from his truck to an open door;
a large sign in a window, meant there was need for more.
Children were playing hop-scotch; Laura could hear their laughter,
and a woman washing windows, waved as they drove past her.

She would recall a tethered horse, and a surrey standing nearby,
while they picnicked by a lazy river, beneath a warm, blue sky.
From a wicker-basket, they placed on an oil cloth spread,
sun-tea, cherry pie and sandwiches from fresh made bread.

In a dress shop, wearing gingham, and high-buttoned shoes,
they looked at fancy clothing and so many hats to choose.
Regressing further; in a trading post, a stagecoach passed outside,
followed by several buckboards, loaded with buffalo hide.

Her reverie begins to waver; someone was calling her name,
scenes of the past fade, and back to the attic she came.
Holding tight to blank papers, she felt a tingling chill,
again she heard her name, it was the voice of her husband Bill.

"I’m here in the attic darling, I’ve had a busy day."
She gasped... a wisp of vapor, from a tea cup drifted away.
Bill appeared at the stairway, she knew she dared not linger,
lightning flashed; she reached for him; a ring sparkled on her finger.

Stunned and suddenly dizzy, Laura began to sway,
there was so much to tell, that happened here today.
She swooned forward, Bill caught just her in time;
from somewhere in the attic, he heard a musical chime.

Laura traversed a barrier, it happened in a blink of an eye,
unable to explain to Bill, for she knew not, how or why.
She chanced upon a paradox; her reasoning could not bring,
a truth about her grandmother, and her gift of the diamond ring.

Dabbler/YarnSpinner

Ham hocks,and butter beans.
Cornbread,and turnip greens.
Mardi gras down in new orleans.
that's what I like about the south.

@Larry - Whew! Perfect timing with your short verse. I had to come up for air after reading Robert's ballad/poem. Robert your writing and your story-telling is fabulous! You are always welcome here, and I hope you contribute as often as you feel like. Have you ever considered giving a writer's workshop? I would sign up for lessons. Or at least, post a lot so I can study your style and improve my writing. BTW, what about your westward migration saga/poem? Are there more installments? Is it TRULY epic? You left me hanging; hanging on to every word.

Wish I could tell a story as well as some of y'all.

Dear MM: You never know until you try. Just like with painting, it takes "Practice, Practice, Practice!". It will get easier and you will get better over time. You could start with something simple like maybe writing about chicken antics. I have read some lovely short stories with chickens as the subject. And don't be afraid to post your writing here. I mostly write nonsense verse, and it doesn't bother me what others may think. I do it for my entertainment and enjoyment, and if others like it; that's just a plus. If you don't feel accomplished enough to write for an audience, have no remorse. You are a very accomplished artist with an expressive style. I wish I was a musician, but I'm not, nor ever will be.

P.S. A Southerner asked a New Yorker "How y'all get to Carnegie Hall?". To which the Yankee replied "Practice! Practice! Practice!".

P.S.S. A New Yorker asked a Southerner "How do you get to City Hall?". To which the Southerner replied "Y'all head down the road apiece, then turn off when ya get to where the old mill was, a'fore they tore it down."

You guys are funny. My hubby's from AR so I'm southern through osmosis. First I am a Nu Yawka. Been living in GA and TN for a few years now.
Gonna post a couple of pictures now.



I think I put 1 pic in 2x I'll remove it if so.

Welcome to the South, and this site, Erica Maxine. Nice to have you.

Well Mark, thank you but you are the newcomer to this site. I was here since 2010 and don't know where the exit door is.... lol j/k

I would like to make a suggestion to contributors to this thread - perhaps you could indicate what inspired you to create the artwork you post. If it is of the visual arts, perhaps you could write a short anecdote (mini-story, if you will). If it is in written form, perhaps you could accompany it with something visual, if that is what you drew inspiration from. It would help readers relate all the better to behold through the eye's of the artist what the South has to dish up and offer.

In an earlier post I mentioned that my writngs were inspired by and with the aid of my "Ghost Writer" Ar-Jay. OK... so we call him my alter ego...whatever. The following is not a poem, nor Epic ballad. I think it was inspired by Ar-Jay to show me reason why artists ARE who they are. It taught me a lesson unexpectedly. I would like to offer this short story, then you decide.

********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************
********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

In this story Ar-Jay takes a long overdue vacation. With the help of natural surroundings, and a dear friend, he learns an unexpected truth about his role as a writer.

Cries In The Wilderness
The Eagle©

Ar-Jay just finished another chapter of his on-going Western ballad. Removing the sheet of paper from his typewriter, he placed it on top of others that had been piling up on his desk throughout the night. Gathering them he tapped them on the desktop to even them upright... turned them, and repeated the process again putting the side edges in alignment. His work, The Ballad of Bill Bundy was still a long way from being finished. As though psychic to his completing this task the phone rang... a familiar voice spoke softly, but demanding in his ear.

"Ar-Jay, you’ve been in that cocoon of yours long enough. If The Ballad of Bill what’s his name, isn’t finished by now, you’ve been dragging your feet. It’s time you get out into some fresh air, and blow the dust off of you."

This was Clare’s way of inviting him to leave the big city, and enjoy some relaxation time in Oregon. After a brief, useless discussion about why he didn’t have time for a vacation, he relented and accepted her offer. Their conversation drifted off to other pleasant subjects.

Clare and Ar-Jay have been very close friends since their high school days. He had aspirations of becoming a writer, but after graduation from high school he was unceremoniously inducted into the US Army, and invited to tour the European continent with the Eighth Army. Clare enrolled in college to further her education in The Arts. She got her degree in women’s Clothing Fashions, but was never satisfied with pursuing the industry, but because of her wildlife and nature paintings, she became a much sought-after artist. Several years ago, Clare’s grandfather passed away, and she was willed a small cabin tucked away in the Metoulis River region of Oregon state. In the beauty and solitude of these mountain surroundings, she now paints.

When the war ended, Ar-Jay renewed his ambitions of becoming a writer. Though he traveled a great deal throughout the United States in quest of material, the two of them stayed in close contact. During their conversation she reminded him they had not seen each other for nearly six weeks. His excuses were weak though he relented to make the trip as soon as he got his work in order. He would catch a flight out as soon as possible. Gathering his papers and notes, Ar-Jay crossed the small room and locked them in a safe. They would be protected from fire or theft while he was gone. He had invested a lot of time and effort into this research, and did not want to do it over again. Within four hours he was on a Red Ball flight to Oregon. It wasn’t until he settled back in the seat on the plane, that he realized... he was truly anxious to see Clare again.

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Early morning of the second day in the mountains, armed only with powerful binoculars, Ar-Jay hiked to a point overlooking the Metoulis River. Warm morning sun had not yet burned away the haze hugging the valley floor and winding river below. From this vantage point he trained his glass on the steep wall across the valley. Almost immediately he spotted a marten scurrying among the boulders and vegetation, probably looking for its first meal of the day. After several minutes of watching it, he panned slowly to his right; searching ledges on his side of the valley. There it was big and beautiful.

A Golden Eagle was perched like a statute on a rocky overhang. Currents of warm air rising out of the valley, buffeted the magnificent bird. He shook himself, settling his ruffled feathers back into place. Tilting his head slightly, seemly to fix a gaze toward the other side of the valley. Ar-Jay was certain it must have seen the marten scurrying among the rocks and vegetation, unaware it was being observed.

Unseen by Ar-Jay... a short distance from the marten, a tiny vole dug frantically near the roots of a mountain berry bush. It evidently caught the scent of a grub, or something beneath the surface of mossy terrain. In its frenzy to seek its quarry, a dark shadow moving over it, went unnoticed. Abruptly, the marten was upon the grub-eater, sinking its sharp teeth into furry softness. Too startled to react, the surprised rodent squealed in terror. After a brief struggle, it laid motionless.

Shrill cries of the vole must have reached keen ears of the eagle. Looking back to the ledge where the big bird was located, Ar-Jay watched it... shifting from one leg to the other. A shrill "creeeeeee" was heard late coming, drifting slightly out of sync with movement he viewed through the binoculars. Leaning forward with wings raised testing air currents; it called out once more; a thermal lifted it quickly from the ledge. Checking its ascent, it hovered briefly, then slowly drifted across the valley.

Reaching a point high above the marten, the huge bird folded its wings, and plummeted earthward, rolling left then right, dumping air currents from beneath its body. The ground rushed upward at an incredible speed. Ar-Jay feared it might not be able recover in time to stop its plunge, but those fears were unfounded. The birds wings opened slightly... it rocketed forward scant feet above the rocky terrain, closing the distance to the marten. A hundred feet... thirty feet... ten feet; Ar-Jay’s heart was pounding, as he watched the drama unfold. At the last possible moment, the eagle’s great wings extended fully, braking his forward flight. Wide-spread talons swung forward, clamping reflexively on the marten, as it passed beneath his breast. Pumping its wings vigorously, it dropped to the ground... the marten held tightly in his grasp.

Shocked by the unexpected intrusion, the marten realized, it had become a victim, and tried hard to release itself from the great bird’s talons. Undaunted by twisting and viscous snapping, the eagle pushed back resting on its widespread tail feathers; one foot lashed out, pressing his hapless opponent to the ground. Eyeing his prize for a moment, the eagle raised its head, and voiced a shrill cry again. It floated back across the valley. Slowly his wings spread like a canopy, concealing an inevitable scene from Ar-Jay’s view. The marten’s struggles ceased; its cries of rage became cries of terror... then there was silence.

Lowering his binoculars... Ar-Jay stood; mentally reviewing the scene he just witnessed... he turned and slowly made his way back to the cabin. Regardless of peace and serenity that abounds in these mountains, the meek are always faced with danger... a cruel fact. It bothered him that the martin seemed not to have a fighting chance. He struggled briefly with that fact and then….

An illuminating thought flashed through his mind. That incident from start to finish, could have been a scenario of his creation, and if he was not satisfied with the end result, he could have changed the story. Power over life and death was nothing more than a stroke of the pen. In essence... as a writer, he felt GOD-like... being able to wield this power. The thought was overwhelming; the reality of this event was, he had no sway to make a change. He did not like the outcome, but was compelled to accept it. On this day, four cries came to terms with the wilderness; from the hunted, two cries of fear and pain; from the hunter a cry of victory. The fourth, was an inward cry of his acceptance; a truth he just now understood. His role became suddenly clear; he was a writer only, a teller of stories, and nothing more.
*****
Upon entering the cabin his tormented senses were waylaid by aroma of coffee, frying bacon and eggs. Claire, in robe and slippers, appealing as always, was preparing breakfast. His thoughts of the wilderness episode mellowed. The furrowed lines of his brow disappeared. A hint of another emotion sparked slightly in his eyes. Claire glanced up at him noting the sudden change in his expression. Placing the pan of bacon on a cold burner, she wrapped her arms around his neck, and greeted him.

"Good morning, had you come back any later, I was afraid I would have to throw your portion out to the bears. I’m glad you could make it."

Drawing her close, he squeezed her firmly... Claire briefly accepted his longing for attention, but pushed him gently back. "You had a different look on your face when you walked through the door. Is something wrong Ar-Jay?"

"Well... yes and no. Still it’s nothing I can’t handle, I guess."

With her persuasion, he explained the incident that occurred on the mountain slope. Compassionate awareness in her eyes spoke volumes; yet she explained more with words of comfort.

"Welcome to the real world Ar-Jay. There was a time I thought everything I painted, was of my own creation. I don’t remember when, but I too acquired a new perspective for my being who I am. Everything I put to canvas is merely a reproduction of beauty that was placed on this planet by a power more talented than I. Oh sure, the public appreciates my paintings, because I embellish the mountain’s beauty. I deliberately eliminate ugly sights of fire-damaged forests, caused by lightning, or man’s carelessness. I exclude sights of the reckless clear-cutting of our great forests, where man shows little regard for our future. The public is willing to overlook maimed, or dead animals, that poachers, and irresponsible hunters leave in the woods... animals they have no intention of claiming. Even sights of trash in these mountains are disgusting. There are many things that do not please me, and most I cannot not change.

I don’t play GOD when I paint. I paint what the public wants, and what GOD intended for them to have and to enjoy. As imaginative creators, we give the best of ourselves, to appease our own needs to write or paint, but at the same time we satisfy the needs of people who are not creative by allowing them precious moments of time, to steal away from naked truths of their real world. The appreciators of our work, need their dream-time too."

Ar-Jay gazed into her eyes; "Do you know why I love you Claire? You always have a logical answer for everything." Moving closer to him again, she gave him a tender kiss, and murmured softly; "Ar-Jay, my dear, I love you too; enough of this small talk; let’s eat breakfast. At this moment, I suffer from hunger pangs."
FINI

*****
Now that you have a slight idea of what makes Ar-Jay tick, you might better understand, why he puts heart and sole into his writing. To write… to create... an artist must constantly be aware of real intent. To non-creative individuals, an artist is but a performer, and entertainer. Whether the work is true to life, or fictional... it is presented as entertainment for others.

Dabbler/YarnSpinner

Though it is only a week away, I shall have to do this post now. I'm sorry, but I'm not able to recall special dates any more. This special poem I take pride in the fact I wrote it. She meant everything to me.

Mother’s Day:” a day honoring all mothers, is observed in the U. S. on the second Sunday of May. The idea was promoted by Miss Anna Jarvis, in 1907. One year later... Philadelphia became the first city in our nation, to adopt her suggestion. This poem I dedicate to Mom.

Mother’s Day

It was just another day, I certainly would not remember.
It could have been March, or June, or even in November.
It could have been in early morn, or late in afternoon,
Time was not important then, but... I was born, and not too soon.

May 26 was my special day, one I could celebrate.
This was now my birthday, my arrival had set the date.
However, something else occurred, upon that special day,
The women who gave me birth, had the right to say.

“Thank you Lord! for this child, to whom I have given life.
You blessed me with a baby boy, in a world of doubt and strife.
I promise I will provide for him, and watch over him, as he grows;
I promise to love him always, from his head to his tiny toes.

Mother would hold me very close, to give me a loving kiss,
Nothing more precious could she offer to me, than this.
She would wipe my nose, wash my face, and tuck me into bed;
Sometimes she would sing a song, or a story would be read.

At times, I would climb upon her lap, to show her a tiny sore,
It wasn’t the hurt that was important, it was her lap, and nothing more.
My mother was soft and gentle, yet firm in her teaching ways.
She could scold with meaningful passion, to prove temptation never pays.

The years have come and gone, six children she did carry.
In trying times, mother endured; though her burdens seemed to vary.
No matter how old her child, she always did her best.
To raise them wise and lovingly, from the day each was blessed.

What better way to compensate, for everything Mothers have done;
We honor them with a special day... each year there will be one.
A special day was granted, and set aside for us to say,
“Dear Mother... I love you always, especially on Mother’s Day.”

Dabbler/YarnSpinner

Robert - On behalf of myself, and readers who wish to remain anonymous; I want to express my deeply felt appreciation for you sharing this story "Cries In The Wilderness" with us. For a brief interlude, I was transported to a bluff overlooking the Metoulis River valley. Everyone needs a short vacation now and again, in order to recharge their spirits. Of course, the moral of the story sank in too.Simply fabulous. Thanks again. Thank you, too, Ar-Jay.

Neil Gaiman's 8 Rules of Writing:

1) Write

2) Put one word after another. Find the right word, put it down.

3) Finish what you’re writing. Whatever you have to do to finish it, finish it.

4) Put it aside. Read it pretending you’ve never read it before. Show it to friends whose opinion you respect and who like the kind of thing that this is.

5) Remember: when people tell you something’s wrong or doesn’t work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong.

6) Fix it. Remember that, sooner or later, before it ever reaches perfection, you will have to let it go and move on and start to write the next thing. Perfection is like chasing the horizon. Keep moving.

7) Laugh at your own jokes.

8) The main rule of writing is that if you do it with enough assurance and confidence, you’re allowed to do whatever you like. (That may be a rule for life as well as for writing. But it’s definitely true for writing.) So write your story as it needs to be written. Write it honestly, and tell it as best you can. I’m not sure that there are any other rules. Not ones that matter.

Mark! Wonderful post!

IF YOU MARRY A GEORGIA GIRL - WATCH OUT! :D

Three friends married women from different parts of the country.

The first man married a woman from Indiana. He told her that she was to do the dishes and house cleaning. It took a couple of days, but on the third day, he came home to see a clean house and dishes washed and put away.

The second man married a woman from Michigan. He gave his wife orders to do all the cleaning, wash dishes, and prepare gourmet meals.
The first day he didn't see any results, but the next day he saw it was better. By the third day, he saw his house was clean, the dishes were done, and there was a huge dinner on the table.

The third man married a girl from Georgia. He ordered her to keep the house cleaned, the dishes washed, the lawn mowed, the laundry washed and ironed, and hot meals on the table for every meal. He said the first day he didn't see anything, and the second day he didn't see anything, but by the third day, some of the swelling had gone down and he could see a little out of his left eye, and his arm was healed enough that he could fix himself a sandwich and load the dishwasher. He still has some difficulty when he pees.

To Mark, hehehe!

The Hillbilly Ten Commandments

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10151652841724948&set=a.124625049947.127061.123733579947&type=1&theater

Mark, We can always count on you for some laughs...over and out.

Gator's Suppertime (hint: tastes like chicken)

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10201243218265698&set=o.49391238555&type=1&theater

The conductor wore a pink tux for the gala opening.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=4445639952562&set=a.4448577225992.162412.1636306700&type=1&theater

Mark... I had to wait quit a while before I could get serious and write the following remarks. I read your tale: If you marry a Georgia Girl-Watch out. From what you're telling us there still seems to be a communication gap between the men and woman in Georgia.

I haven't yet researched Neil Gaiman, but your writing of his rules is as they say: Spot On. In earnest I started writing in 1989. I joined a writers club, driving approximately 40 miles one way to to attend. The second year with the group (TAWC-Thumb Area Writers Club) I was elected Vicepresident. The Third year I was elected President. During the third year I rewrote the clubs bi-laws, because I realized many supposed writers were only there for the social gathering; cookies and coffee. I was there to learn, improve, and become a better writer. Shortly after the bi-laws went into effect, the attendance droppd off significantly. I didn't want it to be that way... those who thought critiquing , and rewriting was too much of a chore, ceased to come. Since the rule of thumb was to reelect a new President or Vicepresident each year, I stepped down and watched a steady decline in earnest activity. The club disbanded. That is when I started my Ballad of Bill Bundy. To this day I continuously go back over my work... one and all, critiquing and rewriting to tighten them up, or make changes. I never consider a work totally completed. Sometimes I find it necessary to change many lines or throw out many thoughts completely.

A short time afterward I was contacted by a rehabilitation director of a group of disadvantaged persons who wanted to start their own writers club. This meant traveling approximately 50 miles in another direction, one way. It was a challenge. This special group had disadvantaged persons ranging from mildly incapacitated to schizophrenic under medication. For eighteen months we met once a week. It was a wonderful experience to have participated in. I learned immediately, to listen very carefully, and suggest more caustiously about changes that could be made to improve their writing. It was the first time I realized it is possible to write a picture story psychodramatically. It was almost like experiencing a first time viewing of a kleidoscope. A mind is captured completly in the constant changing of shapes and color. Never will the same scene ever be repeated. Thoughts could be random and everchanging all in one written scenario. I couldn't possibly write anything close to what they imagined.

To make a longer story shorter, so the story goes, when eighteen month time-span came about, I was officially called to my attention by the group, they did not want to critique any further. My conclusion was... they had, as a group, reached a plateau where there was no more desire to go beyond their capabilities, which brought them to this point in writing. It would have become a strain. I notified the director of my decission, and finished my time with them. Later I learned from the director they had put on a public viewing at the Midland Center Of Arts... Midland, Michigan. They, as well as artists of dance, drama, and other accomplishnents, were well received by the public.

In the public's eye, many may feel these people are different; to be "skirted around" rather than meet them head on, and accept them for their good qualities. I wrote another poem which I "tongue in cheek" dedicate to them, in a very polite humorous way. It's titled "WHATZIT" I'll dig it up shortly.

Dabbbler/YarnSpinner

@Robert- Southern Wimm'n Rule! (the Roost!). Southern women; Ya gotta love 'em! (or else!). If there was a communication problem, Southern women get it straightened out quick! ha..ha.. Just a joke. ;-)

@Ar-Jay - Looking forward to reading your (tongue-in-cheek) poem ""WHATZIT".

@Ar-Jay - You broke Rule # 6.

More on Men/Women relationships down-home style...

Me and Women... a brief synopsis. by Sam Granger, Folk Artist, Story Teller

Looking back over my life, I've always had problems with women. Even though I feel like I've always related to women better, and most of my best friends are women, I just have trouble with relationships. I guess it all started when I was about 3 or 4 years old, the family who lived next door to us at the time had a daughter about my age. It's been so long ago that I don't even remember their names. I was always terrified of this little girl, and I'm positive that she has grown into a Devil Woman much like ones that I depict in my art. Anytime I would see her outside I would refuse to go. The problem with her is that she would always bite the hell out of me. It wouldn't be a vicious dog attack like bite. She would play nice and sweet for a while and even promise not to bite me but before it was all said and done, I knew she would. Had they not moved away, I'm sure I would have been bitten to death by the time I was eight.

I was a shy, awkward kid. I haven't changed much really. People that see the crazy side of me are surprised to learn how shy I really am. If you've followed my stories for a while, you've already read the one about me falling in the holly bush, and my bad experience with the nurse, both women. Both of those explain my clumsiness and naivety. I'm still a little of both of those too.

You'll have to catch me in person to get me to tell you stories about individual relationships, but just tell me which ones you want to hear. There are the "Babygirl Sagas", "The Married Years", "The Girl Who Run Me Out Cause I Said Her Butt Stank (that one is a classic)", "The Mole-Titty" and a couple of stories involving midgets, just to name a few. There are some fond memories of each but they all end in failure.

I have come to the conclusion that I will never understand women. So, I have decided that maybe I should make it easier for them to understand me. I tried the internet dating thing right after my divorce, without a whole lot of luck. People don't like honesty on those things. They're looking for someone who lies about enjoying yachting, vacationing in Paris, and quiet walks in the park. I offered someone who is broke as hell, don't much give a shit about anything, whose hobbies include making art and eating 'mater biscuits.

So here is a brief summary of how to understand me:

I make art not because I like to, but I have to. It's not the most profitable career I could have chosen, but it is my calling, my passion, and will be my journey.

I'm self centered. My world revolves around me. I won't notice if you get a haircut or have new ear rings. You will have to point things out to me. I'm very driven at achieving the goals that I have.

I'm not able to read your mind. I'm also not very observant. I won't know anything until you tell me.

I probably don't give a shit. That pretty much answers questions like, "Where do you want to go eat?" "What type of shoes should I wear?"

I can't make multiple choice decisions. I still don't have cookware because everytime I go into the store to look at it, I can't decide which set to get and burst into tears and leave crying.

I'm immature, I decided what I want to be when I grow up. I want to be a kid. Always expect a practical joke or one of any number of childish acts to occur.

I snore and fart in my sleep. That one should be self explanatory.

I'm moody.

I like Tomato Biscuits.

The one that most women I've encountered have with me though is, I'm not going to change.

That's a good start on understanding me. If anybody meets those qualifications and would like to hear Round 2-14. Just let me know.

A brief critique of "Me and Women... a brief synopsis." I think Sam Granger has written my biography.

Other differences between men and women: 1) My lady love is under the weather with a flu bug or something. I offered to come over and look after her and her reply was "No, I don't want you to see me looking like this". What she really meant to say was...????? Well, what does she think I expect a sick person to look like? This is not the first this has happened. It has happened with other girlfriends as well. What guy would refuse having his woman come look after him when he is sick? None, I venture, and certainly not because he looks sick.

A woman's take on men/women relationships, or why women disfavor men.

Revenge Poem Cycle by Laura Riggs


Revenge Poem #1
when i said “i’m happy to see you!”
i meant, “you seem somewhat intelligent and funny,”
not “you’re really hot.”
actually, you’re shorter than me and quite a bit older,
but you got confused anyway.

Revenge Poem #2
when i said “you don’t know me,”
i meant, “and you’re not going to.”
actually, i was thinking you knew me as much as i wanted you to already.

Revenge Poem #3
when i said “i don’t believe in past lives,”
i meant “i’m never going to believe in past lives,
repressed memories, ufo’s, astrology, est or homeopathic medicine.
i believe disassociative personalities can be dangerous
and mercury is poison, no matter how little you eat.”
actually, that was the first time i realized i didn’t like you.

Revenge Poem #4
when you made a sexually suggestive joke about me in front of my daughter,
afterward on the drive back in the car she asked me who you were.
i told her you were nobody,
just some guy who wanted to date me, but i was avoiding.
she said, “good job, mommy. keep it up.”

Revenge Poem #5
i had an unfinished story about a man who raped me a long time ago.
after you started calling four times a day and emailing me and eaves dropping
on my conversations and ignoring my requests to leave me alone and writing
erotic poetry about me and messing with me, i got the inspiration to finish that story.
yesterday i sent it off to a feminist journal for publication.
you shouldn’t be proud of that,
whether you were raped in one of your past lives or not.

Revenge Poem #6
when i said, “i want you to leave me alone,”
i meant, “i want you to leave me alone,”

Revenge Poem #7
when you said, “we have to talk about this. you never talk to me. you never return my emails,”
and i said, “i’m like one of those houses in the california hills. i have to keep the brush cleared away for fire safety, for defensible space.”
what i actually meant was, “get used to it.”

Revenge Poem #8
none of these revenge poems is supposed to be funny.

Revenge Poem #9
when i dragged my bad-boy, tattooed, latino boyfriend
to his first-ever poetry reading last week,
what i meant was, “leave me alone, and i really mean it.
i’m getting tired of seeing you everywhere i go. don’t you ever rest?”
actually, i’m starting to understand why he has scary looking tattoos.

Revenge Poem #10
whenever i go someplace and you’re not there,
i don’t get a break, because people talk about you.
what i actually mean is,
you would probably feel uncomfortable to know what they say.
i keep quiet, but i wouldn’t count on that lasting forever if i were you.

Revenge Poem #11
stop writing erotic poetry about me, and i’ll stop writing revenge poetry about you.
what i actually mean is, you’d better stop if you know what’s good for you.
I can write thinly-disguised, pornographic poems too, you know.

Revenge Poem #12
maybe i can ask my bad-boy, tattooed, latino boyfriend to talk to you,
or find another way to persuade you,
whichever he prefers,
if you know what i mean.

Revenge Poem #13
i could put this poem up on facebook and friend you,
or i could send it to a zine and then just link to it,
that would be easier.

Revenge Poem #14
people don’t like your poetry as much as you think.

No Mark,I didn't "Broke" rule No. 6... I usually leave a mistake in every work. I have the tendancy to go back "to see if I turned out every light before I went out the door."

In writing, I'm certain each artist is controlled by the desire to reach maximum perfection. I never consider a work to be finished. However, after changes are made again and again they will eventually appear to come 360 degrees to the original starting point.

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The new born of any species has no choice, as to what it will develop into. Their existance is determined by generations of genetic changes. Some times chemistry and genetics get mixed up while in the developement stage. Those of us who consider ourselves to be normal, do not always understand the different ones. If we took time to try to understand them, we just might see a humorous side to their existence. The following poem may not seem to have a direct correlation to the disadvantaged I have come to know in the past; thus I was stretching the imagination when I wrote this slightly Off Color analogy for the "different ones" whom I shall call "Whatzits."

"Whatzit"

I was born fuzzy and ugly, at the age of nearly three.
Would have been born sooner, but the stork was afraid of me.
He dropped me at a barber shop, much to the barbers chagrin.
He didn't know whether to diaper me, or shave my face and chin.

He put me under a washtub, with a bowl of milk and a bone,
To wait for a trapper, to explain "Whatzit" when I was shown.
A burly man in hobnailed boots clomped in with a mangy hound.
The barber banged upon the tub, but I didn't make a sound.

The tub was lifted from the floor, so the dog could take a sniff,
It flipped upside-down, then all four legs went stiff.
Roaring "Whatzit" you got under there," the trapper reached for me.
I opened my mouth two feet wide and gobbled a finger... or three.

The barber got in a frenzy, he rushed to the big mans side.
With his razor he swung at me, but took trappers ear and hide.
"Whatzit?" they hollered, I rushed quickly out the door.
Made me sick being there, amidst the blood and gore.

Into the woods and hills I ran, 'til I came upon a hollow,
I thought I would be safe there, certain no one would follow.
For a while I was lonely... then SHE came into my life;
So lovely she captured my heart; I asked her to be my wife.

We¡¦ve lived here many years; little "Whatzits" we had galore.
It must be eighteen or nineteen, or maybe twenty four.
We don't ask for anything, except to be happy and free,
If you chance upon a "Whatzits" cave, only contentment you will see.

Don't be afraid of us; or any of our Kith and Kin.¨
We share this earth by HIS choice; the same world you live in.
Don't pick on us, or get us riled, because you don't understand,
It's possible you'll lose a finger or two, or maybe even your hand.

Dabbler/YarnSpinner

@Robert - My girlfriend's son dropped off a cute little puppy of questionable pedigree at her house. (Looks like she's stuck raising it).It's not a "yard dog" yet, but will be when it gets old enough. If they haven't named it yet, I think I will suggest "Whatzit" because I think he might be part monkey or cat as he can scale the bars in his pen like nobody's business.

@Ar-Jay re: Rule no. 6 - I bet it's a lot harder to "broke" this rule with pyrography than writing.

I Ain't Got No Pedigree © Mark (blues-tick) Wickham

Don't want to have no pedigree,
Don't want no label stuck on me,
Don't wanna be in no fancy canine show;
I just wanna follow 'hind my nose,
to where the scent tells me to go.

Solo Chorus (HDawg)
Just wanna be me,
----(ah-whooo)-----
Just wanna be me.
----(ah-whooo)-----

Ensemble Chorus (da' bitches)
(He won't be collared, no he won't),
-----------(ah-noooo)-------------------
(Can't collar him, oh, no you can't).
-----------(ah-noooo)-------------------

I done got my p'degree
graduated cum 6th gradee;
that's enuf learnin' fur me to show,
that's more'n enuf fur me, fo' sho'.

Solo Chorus (HDawg)
Just gotta be me ,
----(ah-doooo)-----
Just gotta be me.
----(ah-doooo)-----

Ensemble Chorus (da' bitches)
(No, he ain't got no P-D-gree),
(No, he ain't got no PhD).
------(poo poo poo poo)----------

(No, he ain't got no smarts at all),
(But he's all I got, and that is all).
------(woo woo woo woo)----------


Ain't no tail waggin' this yere dog,
I wanna be the big dog waggin' the tail;
and if that's too much to ask you for,
then you might-as-well just go-ta-hail.

Solo Chorus (HDawg)
It's all about me,
----(ah yeee)----
It's all about me.
----(ah yeee)----

Now if you think I'm not nice,
and if you think you can catch me;
You better think 'bout it twice,
I won't be put in no doggie jail.

Solo Chorus (HDawg)
Just wanna be free,
----(we hoooo)-----
Just wanna be free.
----(we hoooo)-----

When I'm feelin' down,
I just wanna bay at the moon;
When I'm feelin' frisky,
I lust after treein' a coon.

Ensemble Chorus (da' bitches)
This mean ol' hound-dog
Just wanna show his'self,
--------(woof, woof)---------

No, no, no...this yere ol' dog
he just ain't meant for show.
----------(ooof, ooof)-----------

You can round up all your fancy hounds,
and you can put em all in fancy pounds;
Feed 'em, groom 'em, treat 'em good,
and from them you won't hear a sound.

Grand Finale (sung to "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" by da' bitches)

Ain't no pedigree long enough
Ain't no pedigree long enough
To keep me from bein' me, yea
To keep me from bein' me.

Ain't no dog pound strong enough
Ain't no dog pound strong enough
To hold the likes of me, no
To hold the likes of me.

My ol' hound dog - Beau the Beautiful. Don't hate him just cause he's beautiful.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=4908511477287&set=a.1928012966687.2095136.1433091858&type=1&theater

Don't let living history fade away - Support Gip's Place, Bessemer, Alabama - Buy the calendar.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=587182711315125&set=a.180634011969999.42481.165609090139158&type=1&theater

Happy Cinco de Mayo!!!!

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10151359824811408&set=a.108455816407.103543.53199821407&type=1&theater

Lo mismo para ti mi amigo...

Mark:

A dear friend/artist/taxidermist/dog rescuer in S. Africa sent me this quote; I would like to pass on to you since you are considering renaming a puppy.

She stated a friend of hers named his dog STAY.
The dog is now insane.

Maybe because... due to the fact he would call to the dog..."C'mere...STAY, C'mere... STAY
What do you think?

Dabbler/YarnSpinner

@Robert - I think that's plumb insane! I would have named it SIT. "Rollover, SIT... Rollover, SIT". ;-)

You remember me telling about ol' Rube... his Studebaker and fish story, don't you Mark? Well, he called me on the phone and was telling me about a situation he got himself into last Saturday. Stretch your imagination if you will, and picture a pleasant Saturday afternoon, in the non-typical household of "Rube." His wife left him home alone, while she enjoyed a few hours of shopping. Poor dude... he's truly a hapless friend.


Buzz Off
Rube and The Fly

"I was sittin' in my chair ‘tendin’ ta’ read the news.
This fly enters my house, 'n still I’m a bit confused.
He circles the room; I opens ta’ the comic section.
He shoulda' knowed, he was in here ‘thout purteckshun.

Comics give me a chuckle; I turn back ta’ page one,
Politishuns makin' promises, 'n' never get nuthin’ done.
I'm readin' this page; 'n' this fly’s checkin’ out the room
Roarin’ pass my ear, soundin’ like BUZZOoomm

Mannn, you knows I hates nothin’ mor’n a fly.
I was ‘gonna’ fix ‘em… he made his last fly by.
I rolls my paper, ‘til it looks like a short bat,
‘n’ searches for him, ta’ see where in heck he was at.

He was on'a lamp shade, runnin’ ‘roun’ the rim.
I steps on poor Snookums, 'n' takes a swat at him.
I went ta’ my knees, 'n' the shade’s at an awkward stance.
Didn’ think, I was gonna’ get a secon’ chance.

So he flew ta’ a window; I was gonna’ get 'em for sure.
I caught up ta’ him, ‘n’ he flew off ta’ our screen front door.
Fly, it’s gonna’ be me or you.
I made a ball player swing, ‘n’ slice that screen in two.

A fly sure is dumb, he coulda’ hit the street.
‘Stead of flyin’ on out, he passes 'tween my feet.
Off ta’ the kitchen, with me in hot pursuit.
Ta’ a chocolate cake, ‘n’ ta’ a bowl of fruit.

My aim was improvin', frostin’ show'd where I hit.
He couldn’ last much longer, I didn' give him time to sit.
He went ta’ the bedroom; the nerve of that winged cur.
Lookin’ for an all out war, he picked the right guy for sure.

My paper gets tattered, not much left ta’ it.
I grabs up a slipper, it was a perfect fit.
Swung at him on’a curtains, they rips off with the shade;
I follows him 'cross’ our bed so carefully made.

With a soarin’ leap... after I saw him land.
Couldn’ stop my swing, ‘n’ I'm clearin' off her night stand.
I ‘rose ta’ my knees, heard buzzin' on‘a dresser.
He was gettin' tired, I had ta’ keep up the pressure.

Coulda’ been Babe or Chanel; ta’ me they all smells the same.
Top comes off that purty bottle, I thought the fly went lame.
He surprises me; ‘n’ her jewelry box hits the floor;
I was ‘gonna’ swing agin’, but he flew on out the door.

He takes ‘nother turn; inta’ our bathroom painted pink.
Smacks at him on’a mirror, 'n' it drops inta’ the sink.
I climbs on’a bath tub; 'n' on‘a ceilin’ I saw him land,
I slips ‘n’ falls; with the shower curtain still in ma' hand.

I had ‘nough; my patience was wearin’ thin.
I was gonna' get him, 'n' that’s when my wife walks in.
She hollers: "what’s happen’ ta my house”; I spots him on ‘er head.
Mannn, I can’t even ‘member how I got in’ this hospital bed?"

Dabbler

Poor ol' Rube! You sure have a vivid imagination, Dabbler. Or should I call you Rube-Jay? ;-) :D

Maybe it's time to get a little serious Mark.

There comes a time in many married couples lives, when they feel a loss of “need”, but are not certain what this “need” is. They forgot it was a part of their life, given at birth. As they grew older and more self-sufficient, the “need” seems to fade. However, it does spark and blossoms once more when the right person comes into their life. They wed and a new generation of beings grow in light of this “need”. It burns strongly for a period of time, then again fades and seems to disappear. It goes in cycles; it can be destructive if not attended to. What is that “need”? It’s called LOVE.

Love Needs No Title

During our brief tenure on earth
We are transformed from a child that’s taught
To an older, but wiser individual who teaches.
This transformation is subtle and continuous.

Regardless of difference in age…
Both continue to have a common necessity,
The need for comfort, guidance and love.

Yes… soon enough… you will have aged,
Your children will have grown;
They no longer reside in your home,

How do you greet them when they return?
How long has it been since you hugged them?
How long has it been since you said “I love you”?
How long… since they said those words to you?

Have you looked at your mate recently,
And for no other reason, than you really meant it,
Do you say “I love you.”
Do you reach out and touch one another,
Just to show you enjoy, and need their nearness?

Love should never be taken for granted.
It has to be nurtured, spoken, and practiced.
With every effort, you make it be known,
It will be returned in like kind.

To grow old… knowing you are truly loved,
You will feel more like the child needing love,
The child becomes a loving adult you nourished.
You have completed your part of the cycle..

Love is infectious, and addictive.
I hope no one ever finds a cure for it.
Pray that it is never removed from the dictionary.

Dabbler/YarnSpinner

The Devil won't come to you. You have to go to the Devil. Current residence - Georgia. SamG has the Devil all bottled up down here in Georgia. He will sell you the Diablo Genie for a mere $250. What a bargain with the Devil!

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10150469899707512&set=a.10151555243887512.1073741826.63273012511&type=1&theater

Believe in Something and Someone + Believe in Yourself.


Believing by SamG (Sam Granger, Folk Artist)

Some people come along in life that mean more than others. This is about two such people. What sets them apart? They believed in me. There are others but these two really stick out in my mind. My second grade teacher Mrs. Kimbrough has always held a special place in my heart. I tell everybody she was the first person who believed in me. I have wanted to locate her for many years and tell her thank you and let her know that she made a difference. Thanks to facebook, I now talk to her on occassion. I promised her a painting and a trip up to see her sometime in the near future.
I have a lot of memories of Mrs. Kimbrough. This one is still talked about to this day. I've always been somewhat of a free thinker.

One day in the second grade, the thought began to cross my mind to walk home from school. It was a nice day, and I didn't feel like riding the school bus. I saved my lunch money so that I'd have money to stop by the store and get a Coke to enjoy on the 6 mile walk. The bell rang for school to let out and I started walking. I didn't make it very far, probably a quarter-mile or so, until one of the other second grade teachers Mrs. Caraway saw me and picked me up. She asked me who my teacher was, so I told her Mrs. Kimbrough. She took me back to the school and turned me over to Mrs. Kimbrough who told me she would give me a ride home. Mrs. Kimbrough knew my mom. My mom volunteered on Tuesdays at the school. We got to my house, and Mrs. Kimbrough came inside and talked to my parents for a bit. My dad was just staring at me. I knew what immenent danger awaited upon Mrs. Kimbrough's departure. As soon as Mrs. Kimbrough had the van cranked and in reverse. I took off to my favorite hiding spot in those days, under the bed. My dad was right on my heels pulling his belt off the whole time. I shot under the bed and got all the way up in the corner near the wall so he couldn't get me with the belt. He tried several times then I saw his feet going thru the door. I'm thinking to myself, that was easy. Moments later I saw those two feet come back in. He had gotten the broom. He started gouging me with the broom until I gave up and came out. By this time, my mom had intervened and Daddy decided that my brother Stanley was the one who really needed the whipping because he saw me walking up the road and didn't say anything. I could ramble on for hours about Mrs. Kimbrough. Anyone who was in her class will tell you, she was the best teacher ever.

I've recently been humbled by another friend. We've never even met in person up until this point. That will change tomorrow, and I 'm so looking forward to it. She believes in me. I don't know of a better feeling than to know that someone believes in you. She has gone way out of her way to help me get really rolling with my art as a business. She is a great artist, and I tell her all the time that I'm going to have her teach me how to paint. We're planning on doing some collaborative work together in the near future. Thank you Sandy Hall for all you've done. It really does mean a lot.

I agree with you Robert. Let's get serious about Love. Here is my and Kenny G's contribution (mostly his) on the subject.

http://youtu.be/zochPeuCI5Q

Robert - I hope you don't mind that I shared your poem "Love Needs No Title" on my FaceBook page; with proper attribution to you, of course.

Last story for the night; it's about young love, crocodiles, and a cowboy.

Crocodiles and a Cowboy.... A Tale of Young Love - SamG

Love is many splendored thing, or so they say. The truth is I've never been real good at it. This story begins with me and one of my best friends, Travis Hill. He had hair back then and did not look like the 5 time winner of the Charlie Brown Look-A-Like Contest that he is now. Travis and I were doing some part-time work after school and on weekends doing yard work. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon and we decided to grab some lunch while we were between jobs. He happened to notice two girls that he knew from school walking down the sidewalk. We stopped and talked and gave them a ride home. Plans were made for a double-date the next weekend.
The weekend came around and Travis and I went to pickup our dates. I was driving a white Ford Escort back in those days. Dinner and a movie were the plans. We go to pickup my girl first. She was a very attractive girl, a little on the skinny side and very shy. Still the kind of girl you like to be seen with. Our first stop was the movie theater, Crocodile Dundee II had just came out. I'm sure the movie was kind of awkward with her being shy, and me being well, awkward. When the movie was over, we proceeded to what was at the time one of the biggest eating establishments in Griffin. You guessed it, we went to Shoney's. Dinner was fun, there was a lot of laughing and acting crazy, but with me and Travis, that's pretty much the norm. The date was over, Travis' girl had to be home by midnight, so we dropped her off first. My date lived on the way home anyway so we had already decided to drop her off later.
I have always considered my self much more suave' than I really am. I walked my lovely date to the door and gave her the usual "had a nice time, hope to see you again" blah blah blah. This time I really did want to see her again, though. The front door was on a small porch and had a wrought iron rail around it. I decided to sit on top of the rail with her in front of me and continue to pour every line of bull crap I could give her. It's late, I'm getting ready to leave, and I decided to lean in and try to get a kiss. She had a different idea and reached in and goosed me on the side. I am a very ticklish person. I always have been. Anyway, back to the story, she tickled me and I flinched. Now get the visual. I am perched on top of a wrought iron rail with my feet on the bottom rail on a porch that was about 4 steps up. My lovely date is standing directly in front of me just between my knees. Directly behind me is a large, rather neatly manicured holly bush. I lean in for the kiss, she retaliates with a tickle. I then proceed to flip backwards off of the porch into the holly bush. It seemed like the bush just swallowed me whole. The pain was unimaginable. By the time I manage to fight my way out of the holly bush, I'm standing there bleeding and crying but still trying to be as cool as ever. She is on the porch trying her best to hold back a giggle. I look at my car and it looks like it's having coniptions. Travis is laughing so hard the whole car was shaking. I tell the girl that I will give her a call tomorrow. When I dropped Travis off 15 minutes later, he hadn't said a word, he was still laughing even as I backed out of his driveway.
There were several other incidents during our brief relationship, like the time she wouldn't get out of the car to help me catch a dog. Our last date is something I will never forget. I go to pick her up at her house and arrive as her parents are leaving to go celebrate their wedding anniversary. I go in and my lovely lady is sitting in the living room on an ottoman. It was one of those over-sized ottomans that a couple people could sit on. I sit down next to her and we start talking, when i notice she has tears in her eyes. We sit there and talk, not about too much because I never did figure out what she was crying about. I just stared into her eyes as we talked. Anyways, I finally after about 2 months of trying got my first kiss from her. I still remember it well. She still ranks up there as one of the best kissers I've ever seen. An hour had passed and kissing led to some other things, and was about to most likely lead to some most serious things.
I was beginning to think that I was going to get lucky, but my luck was soon to change. The front door swings open and it was her parents. Her dad was normally a likeable fellow. This time however he was not. It seems he had gotten drunk and been kicked out of the local Moose Lodge. I remind you, he had only been gone an hour and it was their wedding anniversary. He was a gunsmith and a gun collector. I was a goofy kid who just happened to be dating his beautiful daughter. Details become very fuzzy at this point. The only real memory I have is of a lot off angry cursing aimed in my direction and the yielding of the largest, shiniest, most spectacularly intimidating cowboy gun that I have ever seen. I figure he brought it out for his anniversary. Dirty Harry would have been proud to have owned this thing! I realize that it is time for me to immediately get the hell on. She figures it best for her to stay. I tried calling her a couple of times after that but nothing. It was for the best though. I can't imagine what kind of shotgun he may have had in case their needed to be a wedding.

Crocodiles and a Cowboy....

Mark:
I laughed so darn hard, it took me better than15 minutes to read this three minute story to my wife.

Dabbler/YarnSpinner

Good story Mark...made me laugh too....you must have been sore after falling into that bush:))) Got yourself into a right old prickle :))

@Robert - You have lived a longer, fuller life than I; and are so much wiser. About LOVE: Is this the way it's done? Should I follow this advice?

This is one of my FAVORITE songs! It's got everything a Southern boy could want - BBQ, BBQ, and more BBQ. Only thing missing is a cold beer. Robert - Is love for BBQ = TRUE LOVE?



Ponderer's Corner: "Was the War Between The States actually fought over BBQ? ....hmmmm....ummmm..."

How Southern guys break up with ex-girlfriends. (Robert - There might be a slight time-delay in man v. woman communication, but in the guys defense, it does take time to put it into words in a song).

This one is for Ed Meridith. Not really sure what it is about as it is in Latvian, but I think she is wishing you a Happy Cinco de Mayo in Latvian.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10201174798962255&set=a.10201174798762250.1073741828.1538678859&type=1&theater

This one is for Robert Jerore - All kidding aside (for now). I think this music video echoes what you have to say about true love in words and music.

Summer's over. Time to quit chasing butterflies.

Go Gip! Show your support! Gip is now on life-support. Keep Gip alive!

Here is the website for the City Council of Bessemer, Alabama. Register the vote "NO"! http://www.bessemeral.org/

Here is a form letter to submit. Just add your name. Site is not responding. May be due to overwhelming response, or my internet is just slow.

Dear City Council Members -

I am not fully aware of the issues concerned with the pending closure of Gip's Place for zoning reasons, but there are many people who are in support of keeping this fine traditional institution alive and well. Please hear the voice of those from all around the country and the world who support keeping Gip's alive.

Sincerely,
(your name)




You too, Yankees! Show your support! (Notice he is wearing a NY Yankees warmup jacket. - No prejudice here).

These are book reviews of the Photo Book "A Period of Juvenile Prosperity" by Southern Photographer and Train-Hopper, Mike Brodie. He has taken some visually arresting, intimate, and intriguing photographs of the lives of those who ride the rails through America, as he did. He began taking these photographs at the age of 17, when he left home from Pensacola, Florida. He has a keen eye and an innate sense of photography. The photographs are immediate, intense, and involving. Worth a look.


http://www.thefader.com/2011/10/20/mike-brodie-a-period-of-juvenile-prosperity/#/2

http://blog.photoeye.com/2013/04/book-review-period-of-juvenile.html

Southern resourcefulness - DIY Hillbilly (hobo?) Tin-Can Grill (no duct tape was harmed in the making of this).

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=412089668877928&set=a.412089665544595.100798.412046715548890&type=1&theater

Mark:

Your post Crocodiles and a Cowboy by Sam Granger brought to mind a very similar incident my mother told me. Mom’s been gone now for 13 years now, at age 96. She lived 4 years with my wife and I before her passing. This episode occurred when she was about 90.

Mom, was all of 4 foot 9 inches tall; near pint size you might say. She lived alone in her house for 10 years after Dad died. She was very self capable during those years… before coming to live with my wife and I she could handle most any problem.

It happened one day in the summer; she answered the door to find 2 salesmen standing outside. One tall man was at door, the second was 4 foot down on ground level in front of the steps. Probably he was a newby, and was learning the tecniques of salesmanship. Even though her front door was now open, she still had a screen door between her and the porch-solicitor. A brief conversation took place before Mom said “I’m not interested.” Realizing the hook in the screen door was not fastened she reached for it to do so. The big guy, very determined, seeing what she intended to do, took the outside knob of the screen door, and started to pull it open. Mom yanked back using the hook, but not before he stuck his toe in the small opening.

It didn’t take long for her to react… she pushed hard the screen door full open to confront him. He was startled, but was still in for a real shock. With both fists she jabbed at him in the chest, sending him reeling backwards off the porch… without railing, and into shrubs that lined the front of the house.

She pulled the screen door shut and locked it. This put the second salesman into hysterics. She heard him laughing and telling his partner… “I don’t think she wants anything,” Mom closed the main door locked it also, and that took care of the situation. When she wanted to be, she could be surprisingly very abrupt.


Another example. Dad was very creative; he needed a snow blower, but being so expensive, instead of buying one, he converted his old, push-lawnmower, into a heavy blowing machine. It worked very well, and though there was a small tool shed out side, it was kept in the basement when not in use. It truly was a chore to bring it topside when needed.

Well, Dad passed away and there was that monster taking up space in what was otherwise a very neat basement. The first summer after Dad died she brought the monster topside to set it to the curb as trash. However, being a very loving woman, who respected what Dad was capable of doing and creating. This snow blower was not going to fall in the hands of someone else. Outside, by the tool shed, she commenced to lay waste to the machine with a 20 pound sledge hammer that was kept in the shed. With the job near finished, a trash truck pulled up in front of the house to collect what refuse was already set to the curb. The driver looked up the driveway into the yard, and could see what she was doing. He asked her if she was going to get rid of the blower. She told him as soon as she completed her job.

“Well no need to do any more to it ma-am, it too far gone now. I’ll take it as it is. By-the-way would you want to sell that sledge hammer?”
“No.”
“Why not? Was his last question.
“Can’t you see I’m using it”?
He took the blower and said no more.

You mentioned about a vivid imagination, in regards to my writings. One need not have to have too vivid imagination, when this material abounds in our family. From situations similar they are worked into many of my stories.

Dabbler/YarnSpinner

Very good twofer Robert and how appropriately timed for Mother's Day.

I returned from Sylvania, Georgia with a croker sack full of stories and pictures. And more, stories... because, well, you know, every picture tells a story. Actually, my croker sack developed a hole (in the form of an unreadable (hopefully recoverable) SD chip), and some of the picture/stories may be "ghost" stories. Oh, well, I will just have to return to refill my sack another time.

Goats are funny creatures. God was in a jovial mood when He created them.
Have you ever noticed how they act contrary to the natural order? I do. Take for instance...

The Goat Races -

Goats start the race out at their own pace, a meandering amble from the starting gate.
They get off track.
It is not until they reach the finish line that they race frantically back to the starting line.

Why does the Devil wear a goatee?
Have horns?
Cloven-hooves?
Smell like a goat?

If it smells like a goat..
It must be a goat.

How many of us are goats?
God also created lambs.
Lambs are not goats.
How many of us are lambs of God?

Have you ever given thought to how much we take for granted, as we go along our paths through life. Suppose you could transpose one item into a personification that you could converse with, or at least understand its thoughts. I have, and did not realize love of somethings could be taken for granted as much as this one was. Then I got this letter...

A Love Letter

Dear one:

I’ll never see you again. I have to put my thoughts into words, so you may understand... please hear me out.

I was there... sometimes as plain as the nose on your face. To others... I must have seemed like a clinging vine. Truly, being close to you was all that mattered. It didn’t bother me that I had to exaggerate, and make little of everything for you... you expected this of me. I did your bidding without comment. You pushed, and poked at me at times saying I irritated you. I accepted this form of abuse, because I didn’t know it could be different. Still I was certain nothing would ever come between us.

Many of our moments together were pleasant. I remember how you would breath so warmly on me, and caress me all over until I glowed. More strange however, were times when you laid me down carefully before the lights were out, but then... you would walk away, leaving me alone in the night. I felt as though something was very wrong with me. Come the early morning hours, I was so elated when you gathered me to you, to use me. What was it about you? Life was strangely wonderful with you. I could never look into your eyes to know you, yet you always seemed to see right through me as if I did not exist.

I couldn’t know there would be problems that I could no longer deal with; our relationship was soon to come to an end. I was furious and heartsick, because I could no longer do your bidding. You flaunted others before me, making me agonize, as you touched them, and asked questions about them, and actually showed signs of approval, just being near to them. I had no idea you would choose another to take my place. I hated... no... I loved you, and wondered, how could you have treated me that way?

Well, that’s all behind now. Since you put me aside, and chose another to take my place, I have come to realize… the chosen one would go through the same highs and lows as I did. There would be happy moments, rejections, and when least expected, you will again seek another as a replacement. For some reason I don’t feel you’re callous, I have come to understand it has be your nature.

It’s very unlikely I shall ever know you again, yet I would ask one favor of you. As you go from one to another constantly searching for what you think is unobtainable; please don’t ever forget me. Remember I was your first... the very first you had eyes for.


Sincerely;






























Your First Pair of Eye Glasses.

Dabbler/YarnSpinner

What's Blue and Orange and Black and Red all over?

@Robert - You made me see my first pair of glasses through new eyes. They were black horn-rimmed glasses. Oh, how I detested them. I was GEEK before geek was cool. Now glasses with non-corrective lenses are a fashion statement. Go figure. High fashion marketing, I suppose.

@H Drew - What's Red and Black or Blue and White all over?

The NCAA Men's Basketball Champions!!

Go Looavull Cardinals!

Go Big Blue!

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=4926827815184&set=a.3072647781842.2122159.1433091858&type=1&theater

Sure... you don’t believe in spooks, but I’ll bet there was a time, when you rushed up a flight of darkened stairs, or hurried to get to the other side of a door, because you weren’t certain what lurked behind you in the dark. Did I hear you say never, not me?” Well, maybe not... however this day is not over.



The Basement ©

Thunder rumbled; I entered the basement of my old house.
searching among dust and cobwebs, for a trap to catch a mouse.
With quest in hand I retraced my steps, to the foot of the open stair,
where a sound beneath the risers, caused a ripple to course my hair.

Hesitating... I stayed my foot, I dared not move one bit,
my ears and senses strained, trying disparately to recognize it.
Like a whisper I heard a rustle, my body became suddenly warm,
in the faint glow of a forty watt bulb my eyes perceived a form.

Under the open stairway, where pale light grew dim,
a silhouette loomed before me, tall and extremely slim.
A wave of nausea swept over me, my brow began to sweat;
my upraised foot was trembling... I hadn’t placed it yet.

Twenty steps above was a landing... frantically I weighed my chances,
of reaching the top, slamming the door, no time for backward glances.
I placed my foot on the bottom step, the specter made a start,
my legs grew rubbery, my backbone weak, I was slowly coming apart.

From above I heard her voice; “before you come back up here,
will you look beneath the stairway, for my antique stool that’s there?”
“Oh yeah,” I thought, “sure, you bet! I’ll do it right away.
I’ll march right back there, tap its shoulder, and this is what I’ll say.

“You’re a figment of my imagination, I only think I see you here;
my wife would like this antique stool, so... I’ll take it to the dear.”
None-the-less I stood there, tensed and poised for flight.
her sweet voice came back once more, “honey, are you all right?”

I don’t believe in spooks, but I was truly feeling fear;
hair on my head was standing tall, and blood was rushing my ear.
Leaning forward for a better view, took all the courage I had;
the apparition crouched menacingly, I was certain I would go mad.

Again her voice called out, “If your having trouble Dear,
you’ll find it along the wall, leaned upon by a mirror.”
A mirror... a mirror... then… that’s my reflection I see?
I’ve been stone-cold petrified, by tricks my eyes played on me.

I noticed... when I moved to one side, so too did my adversary.
the weak light from the dangling bulb, made the basement scary.
A snort and snicker escaped my throat, air turned suddenly cool;
ducking beneath the stairway, I looked for her antique stool.

While I searched in the dark, something approached the stairs,
a sound I heard prickled my skin, and bristled all of my hairs.
I was forced to look through the risers, to see what I could see;
there in the gloom, two fiery eyes, glared intently back at me.

I gasped... sucking hot air... sweat oozed from every pore,
something has blocked my escape... my escape to the upstairs’ door.
I tried in vain to withdraw, into my physical being,
then came tiny sounds, from something I wasn’t seeing.

Lighting around me grew dimmer... gloom held me in its grip.
tiny squeals came closer; in fear I bit my lip.
I wanted desperately to get away, away from smothering heat.
it was then... at that very moment... I felt movement at my feet.

Faintly came a muffled voice, “they’re going to get you, you know,
you can’t get away, you can’t hide, you have nowhere to go.”
A sharp prickling on my ankles, moved slowly up my leg.
in desperation, I tried to scream, I was voiceless... I couldn’t beg.

The squeals grew louder, something moved across my thigh,
I squeezed tight my eyes, but not a tear could I cry.
Trying hard to brush it off, my arms felt tightly bound,
something grasped my shoulder, I heard this demanding sound.

“Come on... it’s Saturday, you can’t stay in bed all day.
the kittens are climbing all over you, they’re wanting you to play.”
She pulled the blanket from my head, sunlight filled the room,
I breathed a sigh of deep relief... I was saved from a horrible doom.

“Honey, are you ill? You’re looking a little white.
why... you’re soaked... didn’t you sleep last night?
Oh yes, please go to the basement... bring up my antique stool.
It has to be refinished, before it’s auctioned at the school.”

Dabbler/YarnSpinner

Shot this photograph of our old Southern Magnolia this morning.

MM Anderson:

The Magnolia tree is one of the splendors I miss in early Spring here in Michigan, since I move back home in 1965. I lived in Virginia for nearly 10 years. I am very fond of the Azaleas also. A location near Richmond called Lakeside Gardens was a most beautiful park to visit. You have some very beautiful picture on display in you web page.

Dabbler/YarnSpinner

Thank you Robert. I grew up in Virginia and it is a beautiful state. Sometimes I miss it.

Dear Robert Jerore - I bet you don't miss cleaning up magnolia leaves off the ground; although I am sure you would trade that for snow-blowing. But, then again; maybe not. My brother moved from Georgia to Pennsylvania, and he LOVES to blow snow! Goes to show you, he is still a crazy Southerner! :D

Here in my home town it is the Horse Chestnut trees that are burdensome. The leaves are as large as washcloths. They don't hit the ground enmasse untill after the snow flies. Chestnuts are the other bothersome bits from the same tree. I usually clean up (4) 30 gallon trash barrels with them. If I don't get them all, the mower will sling them "High-west and crooked", as our saying goes. The barrles are only filled half full due to weight. The refuse pickup men will not handle most items over eighty pounds.

As for snow blowing, I rather enjoy it.

*******************************************************

I was born in Lemoyne, Pennsylvania. It's located across the Susquehanna river from Harrisburg. As a kid, we looked forward to the winters. Our home was situated in the lower fingerling mountains of the Blue Ridge mountain range. Sledding was very exilerating. There was one area directly across the river from Harrisburg known as the Fort Hill. We wallked approximately 4 miles through the town to get to the top of this elevation. From there we would sled down the ice covered streets through a residential section to a main highway below; about four blocks away. My guess is we had close to a quarter of slide. It was a blast. Dangerous yes, but what a trip. I've got to post this poem, because it depicts a picture we were faced with during the ride. The story it tells is not exaggerated. This is what one harrowing sensation was like for us.

************************************************************************************

As a child in the 30’s and 40’s, I experienced many feats of thrill, which today, I would absolutely refuse to let my children... or grandchildren experience.

Winter On The Hill

With runny nose, watering eyes, I faced a bitter cold,
It was winter of ‘41, I was eight years old.
My sheep lined coat, was fastened ‘neath my chin,
Corduroy pants in galoshes, kept wind from getting in.

Two sets of mittens, a stocking cap over my ears,
I looked over burdened, but winter wise despite my years.
My trusty sled, tethered to a close line rope,
Followed behind, as I headed for the sledding slope.

Joined by many friends, we portrayed a winter thrill.
Throwing snowballs, anxious to reach the hill.
Crossing on a footbridge, over railroad tracks,
We saw engines below, belching from their stacks.

Atop the hill we gathered, at the sledding street.
Here we rested, before attempting our thrilling feat.
“Last one down is a monkey"... I quickly grabbed my sleigh.
Feet pounding, lungs bursting, I was on my way.

Runners rumbled on icy ripples, vibrating into my chest.
We headed downward... I wasn’t first, but I did my best.
Pitching into an “S” curve, my sled began to move.
Leaning into a turn, I stayed in a well worn groove,

Another treacherous turn; someone took a spill.
Dashing ever onward, I flew recklessly down the hill.
Watch out, for the cross-road up ahead,
My body tensed, and thoughts of autos entered my head.

Clamped to the steering bar, the sled and I were one.
Nothing coming... I continued my downhill run.
I gained on another boy, who was dragging his feet.
I couldn't pass him, as long as he hogged the street.

Reaching out to him, I gave his boot a push.
He spun out of control, and into a roadside bush.
Onward, picking up speed, another cross-road to go.
That little guy was almost there, when the car began to show.

Neither could stop, on streets covered with ice and snow;
A Model T crossed his path; “Skeeter” shot through below.
Behind, I made my pass; curses pounded my ears.
Should a driver cuss like that, to a kid of my tender years?

One block to go, the end was now in sight.
What a delirious ride... what a joyous delight!
We conquered this hill, smiling from ear to ear.
We took on this Frozen Dragon, showing no signs of fear.

Reckless in our pursuit, of that I have no doubt.
We were all determined, to seek life’s challenge out.
Kids don't be foolish, as I was on that day.
Your parents can't watch forever, when you go out to play?

But... you'll find many dragons, waiting on destiny’s path,
If you dare to take the challenge, you can overcome their wrath.
Take charge, and make life what you will.
You’ll find it memorable, as was my Winter on the Hill.

Dabbler/YarnSpinner

An oil painting that I, Casey, did of my moms house in Knoxville, Tennessee.

This is my tribute to all mothers this Mother's Day for all the fine work they have done.
Their job is accomplished, but never finished, when the babies leave the nest and fly away.

Southern ladies love a bouquet of wildflowers.

My new FAV! Speaking (poetry) and singing of simpler times in the South. Guaranteed to put a smile on your face! :D

Mark: I made a slight change. I found how to embed my reference material to prose. A video Carolina Choclate Drops Playlist. I played the video once, and immediately had to put this to words. It took about 20 minutes.




Many was the nights I passed a scenario similar to this while in the service. I was one of many radio technicians located in a string of radio relay sights strung out from Sumter, South Carolina to Langley, Virginia. My location for that moment of service life, was located not far from Gumberry, North Carolina, situated in the north eastern part of the state near Roanoke Rapids. I would be established with 4 other guys in a 16 man tent, at off base sites like this in rural areas, for 30 to 90 days at a time.

Now the story...

Warm… warm… the blacktop with its single, broken, white line passed continuously beneath the hood of the car. You could have taken the main highway, but for some reason you left it ten miles back and considered a lesser known path to get to your destination. You could still make Charlotte before the sun dipped beneath the horizon. Trees on the right side of the road opened and closed on bright light shining into the passenger side of the vehicle, reminding you of a silent movie reel as it flashes jerky-motion characters crossing the screen.

It‘s difficult to judge how quickly the sun will drop out of sight when driving through mountain byways. The road twists and turns, sometimes even doubling back on itself. A crow would be in Charlotte and bedded down before you got there. You turn headlights on to locate blacktop which seems to meld into the darkness of the weeds, and wooded area of the forest. You begin to wonder if you made a mistake choosing this route?

The roadway dipped then leveled off. A clearing began to open on both side of the road. A dark shape of a building was coming into view on the left side… you back off of the pedal and slow down when you realize it’s a house sitting very close to the roadway.

A dim light dangling beneath the porch roof… you begin to make out figures seated on the ground level porch; faint sounds of music reach your ears through the open window on your side of the car. You’re still at least one hundred feet away, and reflexes cause you to put pressure on the brakes, not knowing what might suddenly appear before you on the road.

As you pass by, you realize there is a gathering of black persons sitting close; singing; the sharp twang of a banjo, mixed with strains of fiddle, guitar, and other musical instruments. Voices are singing in harmony a song you do not recognize. You slip by and are about to push down on the accelerator to continue on. It’s getting late, yet looking into the rear view mirror assures there is no traffic behind… your foot presses down on the brake slowing you to a standstill. You hesitate; as easily as if it did it on its own the shift lever went into reverse… you were backing up.

Music was getting louder, voices more clear. You pass the dark building once more. Off to the right of the road a clearing seemed to appear magically. You pass it… stop, and move forward into the area large enough to accommodate your vehicle. For a brief moment you leave the motor run, then twisting the key in the ignition, you cut the engine. Your headlights are reduced to parking status. You sit there and listen. For what ever reason you are caught up in a moment of savoring sound, that envelopes you.

No one on the porch seems to notice that you have returned and are now embedded in darkness before them. The strains of backwood music drifts from the porch into the dark, seeking you out. Charlotte would have to wait.

Dabbler/YarnSpinner
5/15/2013

@Robert - Thanks for rejoining the thread, and sharing your stories! They are delightful! I apologize for having been remiss in responding. I still want to respond to your poem about sledding. It brings back fond memories. We had a good sledding hill back in Kentucky. I know the Southerner's further South appreciate the exuberance and exhilaration you expressed in your sledding poem. Down here, a snowfall where you can sled is to be taken fully advantage of. It is here today, and gone tomorrow. Keep posting. I am working on a music video (the Carolina Chocolate Drops performing "A Genuine Negro Jig"),which of course takes a while to create, edit, and synch to the soundtrack. Hopefully will post soon. I also have some short stories almost done and ready to post. Please fill in the gap til I'm done. Signing off, friend. Mark

Winter was a good time for me as a child.
I would try to befriend anything that would come within reach.
I had good memories and then sad moments such as follows...
I still have not been able to figure out what went wrong.

Snow Flake

I once had a snow flake
It fell from high above
I wanted it for a friend
I’d give it all my love.

It landed on my mitten
So bright and shiny white
I didn’t feel it there
I was so very light.

I looked down upon it
Hoping we could play
A breeze lifted it
Then put it back to stay.

I took my mitten off
So I could softly pet
I stroked it very gently
My finger felt slightly wet.

I must have frightened it
I didn’t know what to say...
It just up and peed on me
Then quickly ran away.

Dabbler/YarnSpinner
5/15/2013

@Robert - Here is a snowflake friend for you - (*) Notice I am cupping it gently. Do not wear mittens when you receive it. He will pee on you, if you do. :D

I am premiering a series of movie shorts called : "Front Porch Wildlife Movies / Take 1".

I will begin with the lower order of species, beginning with the invertebrates, and move on to vertebrates. This first piece is entitled : "A Snail's Pace".

Posted twice!! ??? This stuff happens. :(

The second movie "IT'S SHOWTIME!" in the series of movie shorts called : "Front Porch Wildlife Movies / Take 1". Featuring a red-throated Anole, showing his stuff while pole-dancing! HOT STUFF, LADIES!! :D

Bonus footage in the series of movie shorts called : "Front Porch Wildlife Movies / Take 1". - Short-short featurette #2 1/2. Crested Red-throated Anole.

Mark:
Your snail and chameleon episodes have brought to mind a specific conversation I had with Rube, my “Friend of Words.” Your two species on video are what you might say are precursors of his conversation and mankind as well. Some species are slow, not overly curious, nor willing to venture far from their birth and development locale. They will remain as they were in the beginning. None-the-less evolution will prevail, and new species have to develop and improve.

So… we’ll sidestep the development theories and pick up with my limited conversation with Rube. Somewhere along the way I may have discussed variances in religion and how the world we live on, came about, but I’m not going to get into a dispute here and now. I mentioned that my old friend Rube oft’ times had a slant on how things came about. He would say his piece, then add, “‘nough said about that.” Now bear with me, even though Rube is a figment of my imagination, I found that once I got him to open up on a particular subject, he came up with some mind bending thoughts.

Rube’s Theory of Evolution

I don’t know what triggered the thought, but being Rube and I are close friends, he seemed willing to continue talking on the subject on Evolution, and this is his way of describing how mankind evolved.

Quote Rube:

“Somewhere during the beginning hours of man, when those first odd lookin’ creatures walked upright on earth, they musta’ seen an’ realized there was a distant place to walk to... an’ they did just that.

I ain’t too smart, but in my limited ways, I realize sumpin hada’ be goin’ through their mind, else why... when they got to a distant rise that they had seen from afar, they found there was still a distant hill, range, lake, river or whatever, once more in distant view.” So being curiouser, and curiouser they would walk over there to see what that was all about. ‘Course they had to eat along the way, an’ they hada’ sleep, an’ do a whole lot more things as they went, so they didn’ just happen on these things over night. Being curious as they must have been, they sought to go to these areas of wonderment, just to look at it and ponder.”

Along about this time in our conversation, Rube quickly jumped ahead thousands of years, to a time when these upright beings progressed to a state of mind, where communication developed.

He also added:
“They could discuss things in their limited chitchat. With bits of knowledge they got from each other when they met, their chatter got a bit heavier. The more they chattered, the more they wanted ta’ know, and the more they would chatter. They was curious bunches back then. Some got to be so curious... they developed lots faster than others, an’ soon got to know they could make the slower-minded ones believe what they wanted them to believe. They also discovered it was pretty much easy to control them in their thinkin’ an’ doin’, and’ whole lot more.”

I asked Rube what all of this had to do with what is going on today.

“Well,” he added, “we ain’t a whole much different from them people away back then. We’re still curious, an’ we still have to know what’s goin' on over at the next horizon. With education as it is… these controllin’ groups are gettin a bit fidgety ‘bout us wantin’ to know more. They don’t cottin’ to us bein’ so curious. They had gottin’ so much control, that to lose it now would upset them a bushel. Why... don’t you know, by gettin’ curiouser an’ curiouser, we learned the smarter bunch of us was able to send people to the moon, an’ now they is talkin’ ‘bout goin’ to Mars even."

‘So what are you trying to say Rube,” I asked?

“Well, jus’ supposin’ those curiouser ones went to Mars, an’ decide they liked it there. Maybe some of these bunches would want to go back an’ stay, an’ grow up their children there. Then if they got growed and got more curious, they might jus’ up an’ walk to a distant hill, range, lake, river, or go to ‘nother spot out there in the sky... an’ they would go over there to see what that was all about.”

Rube paused for a spell, then:

“I was jus' wonderin’ if in time, any of their children would get curiouser ‘nough to want to come back to us that was left behind here on earth... what would they think... 'bout us? ‘Course they would have to eat along the way, an’ they hafta’ sleep, an’ do a whole lot more things as they went, so they jus’ wouldn’ happen 'pon us over night. I’m jus’ wonderin’... what would their bunches of kids think bout us, an’ what would our bunch o' kids that growed up here, think ‘bout them? An’ if the controllin’ bunches here on earth was still 'round... what would they think? I onced heard someone say sumpin' 'bout aliens or sumpin' like that... “

I wanted to ask Rube more about his thought on this matter, but he just turned his back and walked away, but not before he said, "‘nough said ‘bout that.”

************************

I sense Rube isn't too far from base. He thinks... as human beings, we have progressed, and will progress even further. I'm certain he wonders in what point of our evolution chain do we exist. Are we off spring of those who stayed behind, but curious enough to think about going off to the far horizons… or are we maybe going to meet with some who have already gone before, and are thinking about returning to us to see if anything has changed here on earth?

I'm certain Rube doesn't feel it's blasphemy to be a free-thinker. He's just simple enough not to let others control him completely. He isn't worried about not belonging to a special "T"-Shirt" group, just because others say this is just the way it is supposed to be. He just doesn't know how to put all of his thoughts together yet, but some day,… one of his off-spring will have an answer.

Rube kinda feels… while others like him are waiting for results, the Hierarchy will turn upon him, or his kind, and they will be ostracized, banished, and excommunicated. The Hierarchy will scold, tongue-lash, and confound, attempt to belittle, berate, and expel all free-thinkers from their midst.

Rube thinks…take it slow and easy... under some circumstances it does not hurt to not make waves. There is a time and place for everything. When the time is right, I’m certain the “Rubes” will know.

Now as Rube would put it... I too must say," ‘nough said ‘bout that.”

Dabbler/YarnSpinner
5/18/2013

# 6 in a series of movie shorts called : "Front Porch Wildlife Movies / Take 1".

In this episode, a turkey hen is suddenly alarmed during her feeding. It turns out to be a false alarm.

# 7 in a series of movie shorts called : "Front Porch Wildlife Movies / Take 1".

Reflections on goats. "You can lead a goat to water, but you can't make him drink."

Dear Dabbler - I must say Rube must have put a lot of thought into what he spoke of. Rube is a genuine genius. But, to quote Rube - " ‘nough said ‘bout that.” ;-)

I hope you do not mind me re-posting the golden gems off the lips of Rube the Philosopher on Facebook. (Actually, I will do so regardless). Many, many folks on Facebook need enlightenment. But, to quote Rube - " ‘nough said ‘bout that.” ;-)

Episode #10 in the series of movie shorts called : "Front Porch Wildlife Movies / Take 1".

Has anybody seen my bluebird?

I love the South! I'm from North Carolina. I got married in Kiawah, South Carolina on the beach. Enjoy this southen painting of the Kiawah Marsh

Old times they are not forgotten - Heritage music. (Sounds sorta like cicadas, doesn't it?).

Really enjoyed On Goaten Pond Mark...

The southern vibe is phenomenal -- was in Jackson, Mississippi taking part in an art colony for a week mid July in 2008, & 2010 -- there's a way of taking things down a notch and just savouring the days...

Moss draped crepe myrtle trees stopped me in my tracks....

Dear Rube the Wise Sage:

I hope you never have " ‘nough to say ‘bout that”. There are too many subject matters left for you to impart your wisdom on. Pull up a chair on the front porch, get out your whittlin' stick and pocket knife and sit a spell. If you feel like conversation, that's OK too. If not, silence is golden too.

A scarcely known sub-set of Southern culture.

Rube the Boy Wonder.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=583886028298416&set=a.486083091412044.107461.485811038105916&type=1&theater

Double post. :'-(

I am enjoying your front porch wildlife :D:D. The music videos are great too, I especially liked the bluebird one

Mark:
For Rube the Boy Wonder's sake, I entered the world of:
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=583886028298416&set=a.486083091412044.107461.485811038105916&type=1&theater

No disrespect to the originator(s) of the paintings, cut and paste illustrations, drawings Etc.; ( I ), would be tempted to believe who ever created that gallery of pictures suffered from acute Schizophrenia. The continuous flow of surrealistic illustrations found within this link, is bizarre beyond normal imagination. When “you” think there might be a reason behind each creation, it totally dissolves.

I worked with persons with mental disabilities as a counselor for 18 months, in an attempt to create a writing club for them. They were disadvantaged from mild disorders to Schizophrenia (with medical treatment). As writers… my group put many illusions of fantasies on paper I could not attempt to recreate. After 18 months of working with the club members, they reached a plateau that they felt was maximum to their desires. Basically it was due to being requested to rewrite with minor corrections and wording. I never wanted to change the basics of their work... it had to be their thoughts ... not mine. They… as a group, decided they had gone a far as they were interested, to achieve their mission. The director agreed and we ceased further meetings. I learned they were well received when they put on a showing for the public later in the year.

I’m quite certain Rube would have something to say, but for the moment he is not available as I write this. Maybe it is just as well.

Dabbler/YarnSpinner
5/20/2013

Further investigation of one individual's work have shown what I would conclude to be describing unforgettable childhood memories, which were not approprate.

Maybe there is a reason behind some of these paintings after all.

As I mentioned many times; writing is good therapy... so too, it would seem to be with paintingas well.

I guess I grew up in a very happy, loving, protected life style... somethings I considered to part of growing... I do not have undesirable memories.

Dabbler/YarnSpinner

Life choices.

Movin' & Groovin' to the J-Man.

Freckles the Frog

Freckles
was cursed with... well,
freckles.

Unlike his brethren
who were blessed with
bountiful, beautiful ...
beauty marks.

All the others
ridiculed his blemishes -

in loud refrain they sang:

FRIBBIT! FRIBBIT! FRIBBIT!

and with this chorus:

NOT LIKE US! NOT LIKE US!

In his anguish
he cried aloud:

"Oh Glorious One -
.Why am I not
.made in your image?
.Why am I not worthy?"

"I am a freckled freak!"

To which he heard
this reassuring reply:

"Worry not."

"You are, my tadpole."
"You just don't know it."

"I see the others,
...warts and all.
.But you, my tadpole,
...are wartless."

"Worthiness is not
.measured in wartiness."

"So rejoice in your own skin.
.And be not feckless -
.on account of your freckles."

"It is what makes U = Unique."

Oh, how I miss my homeland....

@JC - True Southerner! No mudflaps! A true Southerner MUST get blooded (first deer kill) and mudded! It's a rite of passage to Southern manhood. LOL!!

Macon, Georgia man plays guitar during brain surgery. WOW!! AMAZING!! Can't stop the blues from happening, but can overcome.

http://macon.13wmaz.com/news/health/120862-macon-native-plays-guitar-during-brain-surgery

Wow! That is truly amazing!!

Some while back Mark, you wondered how you would write a good number of years
into an epic ballad. The easiest way I know, would be to ask the clock.

It’s been in the family for years... ” I’m certain you’ve heard that statement many times.
It could pertain to a rocking chair, a piece of porcelain, set of china, or even the antique clock on a mantel.
“Oh, if only it could talk,” you say.


The Clock
(Marking of Time)

With very old hands he fashioned me, from finest Oak in his shop,
Then fitted me with polished brass, and a carved crown for my top.
I was sanded and stained, and rubbed with the purest of oil;
Sureness of the craftsman’s hands, gave me spirit, because of his toil.

Her placed within me a frame, with 2 springs and many gears,
These would endure marking time, throughout a century of years.
For my face, a painted dial, with numbers large and bold,
Then centered squarely in its midst, he placed two hands of gold.

Finally, ‘neath my gears, he placed another coiled spring,
When struck with a tiny mallet, my musical soul would sing.
At last, the moment had come; a pendulum was put in place.
A gentle touch, he gave me life... I at once picked up the pace.

Placing me upon a shelf, amongst clocks of similar kind;
We ticked and tocked in calibrated voices, with one thought in mind.
On the hour we chorused, in a mixture of melodious sound.
To some... this wasn’t enough; they chimed two times each round.

During winter of ‘91, a young lady appeared from blowing cold.
She entered the shop and pointed to me, announcing that I was sold.
For a period of time I was silent; wrapped in paper and securely bound.
No longer did my pendulum swing, or I utter a proclaiming sound.

How long I slept... I do not know, but I awoke amidst laughter and mirth.
Held carefully in strong hands, I was given new life and rebirth.
A mantle had become my station, around me warmth and good will.
I was now part of the Williams Estate, in the big house upon a hill.

In passing of time there were children, two girls and later a boy.
The father loved his daughters dearly, but the boy was his pride and joy.
Seasons continued in harmonious cycles, every winter a candle-lit tree.
Beneath it an abundance of gifts, to be opened by the spirited three.

Then... it was 1915, a year marked with worry and fear.
War raged in a far off land; the boy reached his eighteenth year.
Placed on the mantle beside me, encased in a gold colored frame,
A picture of a young man in uniform, who went to a war not of his blame.

Two more seasons went by, and as always there was a tree,
Happiness was dimmed that Christmas; there were two children... not three.
I counted hours faithfully, and both daughters at length were wed,
The parents were slightly stooped, silver hair adorned their head.

Grandchildren would often mock me, as I chimed in my steadfast way.
I would sing the only song I knew... day after day, after day.
In the year of 1930, as depression gripped the land.
The William’s Estate had to be sold, I was auctioned with everything at hand.

My memory lapsed quite often, sometimes in the middle of my song.
I awoke once for a very short time, something was desperately wrong.
The glass that covered my dial was gone, both of my hands were bent,
My finish was marred, dust filled my case, my voice was woefully spent.

I grieved, preferring darkness, rather than anguish I couldn’t understand.
Humility placed upon me, was by far too great a demand.
Once again, I was obliged to awaken; strength I felt in my soul.
I sang in a voice soft, and clear, I knew at once I was whole.

A writing table was my dominion; a brass lamp stood to my right.
Through a laced-curtained window near, I bathed in warm golden light.
When evening shadows prevailed, and gold melted from the skies,
A young woman sat at my table, sometimes with tears in her eyes.

For hours she conveyed her thoughts... to paper, in a soft lamp glow.
Then folding her hands, she bowed her head, and prayed for her GI Joe.
Seasons continued on a natural course, then during the cold of year,
The man in her life returned; my voice was unusually clear.

Time passed... who better to know, than I with my rhythmic beat.
Suddenly, one night after singing three times, I felt a terrific heat.
This wasn’t day glow; it surpassed any warmth I knew.
From across the room a light flickered; a mixture of red, orange, and blue.

I smoldered, not withstanding heat, and light grew fiercely bright.
Figures scurried about the room... once again there was darkness and night.
Sleep... always sleep after trauma; my features were not pleasant to admire.
I was placed on a closet shelf inactive, for a long time, after the fire.

I dreamed hands caressed my case... strangely, a familiar touch...
Bringing memories of seasons far gone; could I hope to expect so much?
Pains-taking, and slow was the process; loving care removed ugly scars.
Oil like that used by the craftsman, restored beauty where once there were mars.

The face I knew, had been replaced, it’s numbers were metallic and gold.
My gears were cleaned and lightly oiled; I still had my hands of old.
A glass door was fixed in place, my pendulum was urged to swing.
Finally... exactly on the hour, I rejoiced... I could still sing.

1891 is etched on my frame, I’m over a hundred years old.
Do you realize the history I’ve seen, or stories that could be told?
I sit on a mantle ticking, not making any demands.
What’s in my future...who can tell... I have nothing but time on my hands.

Dabbler
8/25/1998

"Summertime; and the livin' is easy..." Lighthouse at Tybee Island, Georgia.

Southern bird. (and NO, it's not fried chicken.)

This house is a landmark. It is the only house remaining in Old Jacksonborough, the county seat of Screven County, Georgia. The remainder of the town was cursed, and fell into ruin. This house was blessed, and remains standing to this day.

According to history, a curse was placed upon the town by Lorenzo Dow, an itinerant Methodist minister, who was run out of town by the “Rowdies.” After being befriended by Seaborn Goodall, who gave Dow shelter for the night, the minister stopped on the bridge the next morning and asked God to place a curse upon the town with the exception of the Goodall home.

Within 20 years the town had ceased to exist. There were unexplained fires, mysterious winds that ripped roofs from houses, flash floods that emanated from the usually quiet creek. The curse was fulfilled by a variety of means, and the county seat was moved to Sylvania in 1847 after the town was virtually deserted.

Here's my tribute to the Southern Thang:

Nice B&W work, John Rizutto. I have a particular fondness for the tonal depth of black and white photography that color cannot achieve. For many years, that is all the film I shot.

Very nice work, Michelle. Your contribution here is appreciated, and enjoyed. Feel free to contribute as frequently and as much as you like. Never paid the Green Fairy a visit. Have you? I read where it is making a small comeback in the U.S.

Photo essay of Independence Day as celebrated in the South.

https://www.facebook.com/ProudClarion/media_set?set=a.10200311697981750.1073741843.1433091858&type=1

Good work!

Thank you, Chet. All credit is due the artist who created the assemblages.

Happy 4th Mark! I miss your poetry:))

More eclectic yard art @ Petticoat Junction, South Carolina. It's weird, wacky, & wonderful!

https://www.facebook.com/ProudClarion/media_set?set=a.10200312314557164.1073741844.1433091858&type=1

Let Freedom Ring!! (Frogs celebrating the 4th of July).

http://soundcloud.com/user3175167/frogs-celebrating-the-4th-of-july

@Karen Newell - I still enjoy y'all's poetry. I just run out of words in my vocabulary, so I'm done writin' poems. ;-)

Mark, maybe you words will come back eventually and entertain me again ;))