An Old Western Movie

My grandpa Wardie has been in the Hickory Creek nursing home in Winamac for about 8 years now.  I didn't know him growing up, but when he moved back to Indiana to stay at the nursing home, I began visiting him.  When I'd walk into his room, he'd pop up real fast and say, "I'll be damned!"  Then he would turn the volume down on his TV which always played an old black and white western movie.  He'd say (to anyone who would listen or he could flag down in the hallway), "This here is my oldest boy's daughter.  She isn't quite as mean as him though.  She takes after her mother!"  Then he would ask me questions about my parents, brothers, grandparents...He wanted to know about everyone.  He would always ask me the same question last, "How's Lois?" I'd tell him she was doing fine, and he would say, "That woman is meaner than a rattlesnake!  Do you know she once beat me while I was sleeping with a cast iron skillet?"  To this, I would always say, "You pry deserved it, grandpa!" and he would say, "Yeah, I probably did..." 

Then, my grandpa would say, "I reckon we better go out and have a smoke." I would tell him I don't smoke, and he would say, "Well, I reckon I better smoke two then for the both of us!"  So, I'd wheel him outside for a cigarette and he would complain about every nurse in the place.  "Those witches bring me cold coffee!" or "The wardens have been stealing my cigarettes!"  I'd agree with him about the place being completely unfit to live in.  "Well, I got me a couple girlfriends at least.  Can't get them to leave me alone.  Old horny rascals in here, let me tell you!"  Then I'd tease him about being a ladies man.  After going back inside, a nurse would come to bring him coffee. "Oh boy, that's hot!" he'd say.  I'd tell him that nurse must have the hots for him. "I reckon she pry does."  And then, he would begin asking me about everyone all over again.

My grandpa had a stroke a few nights ago and was sent to the hospital.  Exams showed his body was gradually beginning to shut down.  We decided to move him back to the nursing home where he would be more comfortable.  This morning, we all took turns going in to see him.  I'm not good with words, so I kept stalling.  Then, my cousin came out and told me to go in.  I said I would later, but everyone looked at me weird.  The peer pressure got to me, so I went in.  I stood there for a few moments unsure of what to say.  Finally, I bent down and said, "Hey grandpa, it's me, Elizabeth, Tinker's daughter."  He opened his eyes and cried, I patted him to calm him down, and then left the room.  I've never been any good with emotional stuff either.  About 1 minute after I left the room, my grandpa Wardie passed away.  Then I cried, too.

So, I would like to dedicate this song to my grandpa Wardie and to my grandma Mary (whose birthday is on the 29th of this month).

Fitzgerald and Faulkner

I am surprised at how much enjoyment I found while reading the stories by Fitzgerald.  It wasn't really because of the stories themselves because I thought they were rather dull.  The sophistication of the words are what drew me in.

"She wore a blue gingham dress, rimmed at throat and shoulders with a white edging that accentuated her tan.  The quality of exaggeration, of thinness that had made her passionate eyes and down turning mouth absurd at eleven was gone now.  She was arrestingly beautiful.  The color in her cheeks was centered like the color in a picture - it was not a "high" color, but a sort of fluctuating and feverish warmth, so shaded that it seemed at any moment it would recede and disappear.  This color and the mobility of her mouth gave a continual impression of flux, of intense life, of passionate vitality - balanced only partially by the sad luxury of her eyes."

He uses words I would never think of when writing a story.  Even though I thought this story was boring, I couldn't help but sympathize with Derek and Judy.  Their lives were vividly painted in my mind, and I was hoping for a happy outcome for them both.  This is another thing I like about Fitzgerald's writing.  The stories have real endings.  They aren't always happy, but they teach you about life in the real world.  Usually, books I read have good endings which were fully expected through the entire thing. 

I enjoyed Fitzgerald's style of writing, but I loved William Faulkner's stories.  A Rose for Emily was my favorite.  I've always been intrigued by the human mind.  One of my favorite shows is Criminal Minds.  It is about a Behavioral Analysis Unit (BAU) in the FBI whose job is to think like a killer in order to find them.

Even before we knew Emily had killed a man, it was apparent there was something wrong with her psychologically.  This is what kept me reading.  I wanted to know what they would find in Miss Emily's house because it would unveil the secrets of her mind. 

This semester has been insightful.  I have discovered many different writing techniques which have intrigued me.  I'm looking forward to the 1st half of American Literature in the fall.

"The father is always a Republican toward his son, and his mother's always a Democrat." ~Robert Frost (My favorite Frost quote!)

Birds and Apples

We are finally settled into our new place, and I just installed the router for wifi.  It is so much easier to take my computer around the house with me during the day.  We also added four additional members to our family. Oliver and Opal are love birds, and Gideon and Gwen are parakeets.  I have been wanting birds for a long time.  My grandmother and my great aunt had birds when I was young.  When I would spend the night with them, their birds would wake me up early in the morning.  At the time, I hated them! How dare they chirp and tweet all chipper like while I'm trying to sleep.  The sun was devastatingly wicked to an 8 year-old.  Now, I am awake before the sun comes up anyhow, and the birds make me smile because they remind me of memories with my grandmother.  They are a joy to watch as well.  The lovebirds are flirty and constantly "making out." I feel like I should throw a blanket over their cage and give them some privacy half of the time!  The parakeets are rather boring.  Gideon stands in front of the mirror checking himself out all day, and Gwen watches him from her side of the perch.  The constant admiration she shows him only reaffirms his love for himself.  Sometimes she tries to flirt with him, but Gideon flies away until she gives up.

A Minor Bird
I have wished a bird would fly away,
And not sing by my house all day;


Have clapped my hands at him by the door
When it seemed as if I could bare no more.


The fault must partly have been in me.
The bird was not to blame for his key.


And of course there must be something wrong
In wanting to silence any song.

"Apples always taste better with a pocket-knife." ~Uncle Cob

  I wish I would have kept track of all the things my grandparents and great aunts and uncles said growing up.  However, I do remember the most important ones like this!  My son just brought me an apple and my purse.  I have a pocket-knife in my purse which is perfect for apple eating.

After Apple-Picking

My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough. 5
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass 10
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell, 15
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear. 20
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound 25
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch, 30
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap 35
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it’s like his 40
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.