Me at the Thomasville reading. I don't know why my hands are in fists.

One-Stop Book Tour, More Kittens, A Bigot, A Nazi, Jesus, and Folk Singers.

In the middle of August I drove to Thomasville, Georgia to participate in a book event, sponsored by The Bookshelf, an independent book store, at the Thomas County Public Library. I had a fine time reading from my poetry collection, One Day Tells its Tale to Another, sitting at a table among 17 other authors, chatting, listening, networking (I think), enjoying the bookish milieu. For luck I wore both strands of pearls my mother left me, and they worked: I didn’t stumble, wobble, freeze, faint or burp. I even sold some books. After the reading I drove to Tallahassee, checked into a swankish hotel and read or watched movies on TV for two days because it poured off and on my whole weekend away. I did visit the old state Capitol, had it all to myself, and read about the political history of Florida. Most of that was as heart-wrenching as I expected it to be, but there were shining moments. Did you know that the pioneers in protecting the state’s ecosystems were  women?

Another litter of backyard kittens was born in June. Their mother has disappeared, but they have a champion in Peach, a gorgeous little guy who was born in the spring. He watches over the four toddlers and my brother and housemate Drago and I feed them twice a day. I am going to get them all fixed (somehow) when they are old enough, or our backyard will, at least in terms of cat population, will be like Venice or Rome.

Last week there was a raging bigot hanging out in our Florida room.  It was the first time I've been afraid of being alone in our house with a man, or woman, for that matter. I didn't like the way he called me "dear" and I didn't like the way he went out of his way to assure me I'd be safe with him--he wasn't going to cause no trouble. Bud the roofer finally came to fix the leaks. This has been a summer of deluges here on the Panhandle. Bud has MS and the heat is bad for him and I'm sorry about that. He came inside every now and then to cool off and drink ice water. I was watching the ceremony commemorating Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I have a dream” speech on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. The first time Bud saw the camera pan to Pres. Obama, he said "I'd like to shoot that man." He's ruining this country." I said, in a civil voice, I'm a Democrat and I voted for him twice. Bud shook his head a few times at the speaker, King's daughter, I think, then went back to the roof. He came back in later when Obama was on screen again, and let it rip. "He has no right to be President-he's not a citizen-he should be in jail-he's a Communist, a Socialist, a Muslim, not a Christian. I said something about it was the 1% who hold the wealth in this country that are hurting it and Bud said, "If they have that much money they worked for it or inherited it," and I, raising my voice, said that they stole it or their family stole it, and he said, "Every man is entitled to the money he works to git," and I said I didn't want to talk about this anymore, that I was getting upset, and thank you for fixing the roof. Luckily, he was finished with his work and as soon as he went out the door I locked it. I was shaking. Smoked one of my brother's cigarettes. My gut told me to get out of Florida-then I thought, no. We all can't leave the state to people like him.

I went to the bank Saturday to cash a royalty check for $19.60. The guy in front of me had an Iron Cross tattooed on his neck. I wondered, hopefully, if it was a sloppily done Maltese Cross. Then I looked down and he had a big swastika on his calf and other mean looking tats. I put more space between us. What's was going on with my Karma last week? The bigot roofer Wednesday, and and then a Nazi?  Jayzus!

Speaking of Jesus, I’m halfway through Reza Aslan’s fascinating book Zealot. I often promise myself I’ll read more nonfiction, and when Drago finished this book, and I’d finished another Donna Leon mystery, (speaking of Venice) I plunged into the first century, Common Era. I recommend Zealot to anyone who is curious about the historical life and times of Jesus of Nazareth. And who wouldn’t be? Okay. Many of us. One thing though: there is a hell of a lot of rampaging, bathing in blood, chopping off of heads, all that. Aslan reassures us that violence has been with us all along. I knew that, but damn!

Yesterday I read again, but this time close to home. My friend Katrina and I went to an open mic and music performance in Lynnhaven (so, one town away--a tiny tour.) The other performers were folk singers and storytellers. The afternoon tripped along with guitars, bass fiddles and some heart-stopping voices. Warm people, good music--the best parts of Southern. It was a fine start to September.

Nonnie Travels, Part 3

Nonnie Travels, Part 3

I never woulda done it on purpose, of course. My plan was to amble south and west from Black Mountain, North Carolina to some point in central Georgia for a night, and then, the next day, on to the Florida panhandle, where I live. I would drive along what I think of as "soft highways." I avoid Interstates to the best of my ability. As soon as I get on one I want off it-so there's little point in trying them. This has taken me many years to learn. I'm a good driver, I think, but I have issues-see Nonnie Travels, Part 2, if you're curious about those-it's right under this post. I did avoid the four-to-six lane, beat up, loud, unforgiving zoomers for the most part. I followed through on that part of my plan, anyway.

Self-navigating with my follow-roads-that-point-south-or-west-or-both rule, I ended up in the southern Appalachians, on two way roads with a hair-pin turn every two seconds. Nobody else around for long chunks of time. The roads had signs with numbers and "south" or "west" posted every now and then, but since I couldn't look at my maps,(I love maps and had lots of them with me) they weren't very helpful. I'd flash by the infrequent shoulders and pull-overs and think, "oh, there was one." Once on this path, I had to go on until I came out somewhere, turning around just didn't seem doable. Hell, I couldn't even think about changing the CD. My hands were too busy. Really, I felt like I was driving with my arms. My entire body. Still, early Tom Waits was rather good company for this drive. He and I had a blast.

Driving up and down and around mountains, in October, on the kind of day that deserves all the best weather words thrilled me and gave my six-year old Buick a happy shock, too. Okay, maybe I wouldn't recommend the sort of morning I had to fellow heart patients, but man, it was fun. I had red, yellow, gold and green trees, dappled sunlight, miles of dense forest and then panoramic views of somewhere (didn't much matter where at that point, did it?) and I was counting only on myself and my trusty car, with Tom for additional spirit. I never woulda done it on purpose, what with my issues, and my promises to be careful, but fate gave me a gift…and a boost. I'd even gone south and west after-all, albeit not very far south or west, mostly up and down. Sort of like swinging. Huh.

This is the Windsor Hotel, dressed up for Christmas, in Americus, Georgia.
I stayed here on my way up to Black Mountain, and again on my way home. Great place. No fooling.

Nonnie Travels, Part 1

Before leaving for my 10 day trip to North Carolina for a Road Scholar program, "Southern Writers and Banned Books":

I almost cancelled. (too much chest pain-too tired)

On the way to North Carolina from the Florida panhandle:

"Is this Bonifay?"
"Yes ma'am," the cashier said in a sad, sad voice.

Mamma horse and her colt running flat-out across a pasture,
cows, goats, peanuts, cotton, pecans, sod, brown dirt, red dirt, dirt for sale

Old mansions, (the new ones are around Atlanta I guess, but I didn't go there) gun-shot shacks, tidy small towns with town squares or circles and big churches with long names, railroad tracks with right and wrong sides, the Tricia Yearwood Parkway

yard sales everywhere (I mean, everywhere!)

"Where's everyone going?" I asked.
"The Fair!!!" she said, and handed me my change for a big-gulp  coffee.(Everyone in the Perry, GA. traffic snarl knew but me, and clearly I shoulda.)

front yard sign: "Jesus"

The Windsor Hotel in Americus, GA. Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter go there for dinner sometimes. William Jennings Bryan,  Al Capone, Robert Bly, and Stephen Colbert stayed there. Not bad for a small town hotel.

from a  balconey at the Windsor Hotel

Dining Room, Windsor Hotel

Lost in a mall-crazy loop around Athens, GA.  Lost in one-way streets in downtown Athens, GA.  (It's all true-what they say about the way Southerners give directions.)

Missing my brother Drago, who was home alone at night and didn't like it. Sam and Blossom, our cat and dog, were with him, of course. Excellent companions, the best, but they don't sit at the table with you or watch Chris Matthews.

Springhill Suites are decorated with lots of lime green. Dunno. Springy?

Mountains! (Those others weren't mountains. They were hills. These are mountains)

Montreat, N.C.

Assembly Inn, Montreat, N.C.

And then:

Finding Black Mountain, N.C., (home of Black Mountain College from 1933 to 1957-now there's a story) without a hitch, hardly, unloading my stuff, steering the fucking cart (sorry, but there are times it's the best word) loaded with my stuff to my room at the Assembly Inn at Montreat Conference Center.  Settling in. Dinner with people I liked right away. Feeling fine…and proud of myself.

(to be continued)

Respite

Some person, she couldn’t recall who, or even when

said, ”Maddy, go to Callaway Gardens.”

So she drove from northern Florida

to the low Georgia mountains, to the pines,

lakes, thickets of muscadine grapes, and thousands

of calling birds, who were mating, nesting, giving birth.

The room they gave her was forest damp, worn out, shabby even,

a perfect fit for Maddy’s spirit. The morning after a quiet night,

she walked through woods to the butterfly pavilion.

Glass high above and all around, awed children softly laughing,

water falling, reds, yellows, every single green growing,

winged creatures fluttering wherever she looked,

pulled her from the narrow room

in the nursing non-home

where her father died earlier that spring.

In the sunlit, moist enclosure,

a bright Blue Mortho chose her,

alighted on her breast,

where it stayed and stayed,

even as she walked, whispering,

down the Wonderland paths of the butterfly palace.

The Little White House

FDR had a summer home in Warm Springs, Georgia. As one might expect, there are servant’s quarters, a guesthouse, luscious mountain scenery, a fine verandah, and sentry posts that were manned by Marines. Three Marines watched over Franklin Delano Roosevelt and his guests. That’s all. Huh.

The main house has six small rooms, darkly paneled, and humbly furnished. The only piece I coveted was an excellent cook’s table because of its sensible size. The icebox was on a little porch and the pantry displayed mismatched china and silverware. The two-roomed guesthouse is in the same rustic style with more of the gloomy dark pine paneling. The cook had a room over the garage, and so did a married couple who traveled with President Roosevelt.

He had his fatal stroke while posing for a portrait in the “Little White House.” The painter, Elizabeth Shoumatoff, her easel, FDR, and Lucy Page Mercer, who was visiting that day, must have been crowded in that small sitting room. (Eleanor wasn’t there, but then she seldom visited the house in Warm Springs.)

After my tour of the museum and house, I went to the gift shop, of course. I bought two soup mugs for my brother Peter and I. They are printed with acronyms for programs that got started during the New Deal: CCC, FCC, FDIC, FERA, FTC, NLB, NRA (National Recovery Administration, not the rifle NRA) REA, SEC, SSB, TVA, and WPA. Whew! My new mugs have the full titles of the programs listed, too, and let me tell you, it’s an impressive list. Maybe you’d like to read about them. Just Google and they’ll be there. I’ve always thought well of FDR, but after visiting his summerhouse in rural Georgia, I love him.