Thursday, April 12, 2012

La Vie en Rose

Here is the background music:

I left the house the last two days after watching the video of Edith Piaf singing this, and felt the music held me together, somehow.
Today I found the above link with the lyrics.  Well, just a few minutes ago, actually.  And I think about practicing the song, learning the French, and absorbing a way to carry myself amidst all the the local stuff, my situation, and now that I have begun to break down, become a loose cannon in heavy seas, and need to start singing a theme song.
I never heard daddy sing this.  Maybe my voice can do it, or at least an internal hum.
Oh, and here is the video where you see Edith actually sing it.

I will publish this for those who need a thread to follow and hang onto for a few minutes.  Swing thru the yardarms, catch daddy's little finger.  and he would toss you up in the air and have one child on his shoulders, and a third in the crook of his left arm.  Three ages, three locations, all juggled thru heavy seas.

I'm back, trying to figure out where I have been these last two months.  Must move backwards.  No other way. I went to Agricultural Extention Center today, which would have been, Thursday, perennials, and indeed it was.  But, they start at 9 a.m., and I had no intention of joining up with Master Gardeners, but, I walked thru the trees and shrubs that were Marcia's domain.  And how amazing.  So much accomplished, especially last year, her choice what to order and to place.  And I didn't get to see her motor her electric wheel chair thru this year, as I searched to be with the buds of the fruits.  No, I was otherwise occupied.  But, the trees and the tree cover, totally open for occupation, all picked up, and I see what is a year old, what is two years old.  What we put the signs on last year, following her map, and this year all is perfection, needing nothing but walking, and seeing, the only tribute she would want.  I found out about her sudden death yesterday, Wednesday, annuals.  La Vie En Rose.  I was priviledged
the two times we went out together last year.  I was so joyous.  A Girl of the Limberlost.  A dream come true.  Thank you Marcia Anne Stefani.  The music is great.  The canopy is fine, the shelter is all it should be.  Thank you.  Thank you, Marcia.  And there was a cool breeze, too.  And I saw the special plant up front.  I will write the name down, next time.  I will practice with my special pencil.  Thank you, Marcia. 

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Coup de grâce

Until I looked it up on wikipedia, I thought the spelling was coup de 'grasse.', not 'grace'  I see that it is a kind kill.  Just as Hemingway gave to himself.  My grandfather gave kind kill, I suppose, on the beaches in the Pacific war.  To look into his eyes, and hear the Our Father, is a kind death, along with the tubes of morphine.    A hypnotic angel.  While those who had a chance, were given something to bite on, and pain relief, enough to only moan, so one could be located,  I suppose.  He prayed to St. Joseph, for a kind and happy death.  He had one.  I took his hand from the man with the crash cart, and held it, and let the regulations be damned.  My grandfather's body glowed like a candle.  Amazing to see.

My grandmother was in a room near the nurses station.  As I left the room, the 'relatives' told me not to get her, my grandmother.  I kept walking.  The famous nun of the hospital was with her.  I looked at grandmother and told her.  'But,' she said, 'they said he was getting better."  "I know, I heard them say it to you, grandmother."
She rose and we made our way to the end of the hall, to grandfather's room, across from the elevators.

Grandmother pulled up a chair and talked to her husband in words and ways that no one in that room ever heard or even knew existed.  "Joe, I didn't know.  They didn't tell me...." And a conversation on such a level of regret and love and experience.   She called her only living blood relative, her niece, and said, "He's gone.  Joe is gone.". and talked on an even keel, not what anyone in the room expected either.

Then the 'saints' said  they were taking his body away, etc.  And I understand, from my youngest sister,  I turned my eyes to the Uncle that echoed 'officialdom' and said.  "Tell them to back down."...He babbled on, and I repeated my statement and the nun and priest and the doctor retreated.

Other relatives were called, and made it to see the 'glowing', and there was whispering.  My baby sister took my measure that day, she told me a few months ago.  I told her not to be so sure.  I get beaten up often, curling up in shame. most often for being physically unable to complete a task.  Then I told her how 'fools rush in where angels fear to tread.'  To not waste her life on 'the English', to measure her resources, not 'cast pearls before swine.'

I will carry on later, maybe.

Four days later, the 12th.  I find, 1.1mm lead for old pencil.  Hours later I find staples, and a light blinks, a small magnifying class with a light.  Voila.  And then.....the ColorArt set.  Prang Brush Makers, Charcoal Pencils, Drawing Pencils, Colored pencils, sharpeners, and gum and soft eraser.  Voila!.  Only $3 at thrift store because one brush marker missing.  I will put the small loose stuff in tackle box acquired last month, double sided,Plano Magnum, on the day I got the miraculous fortune in real cookie (Am I the only one who eats fortune cookies") It said: "Some pursue happiness; You create it."  That was the day my friend died.  And the gardener appeared, Jennifer.
Well, I haven't been exactly creating happiness, except for the Little Hellion.  She comes tomorrow, maybe.  At Easter dinner, as I drove off, I called out "See you Friday."  That's tomorrow.  And I need to enter it into the phone.  Dare I ask for a gallon of gas?  Best not to speak.

Oh, and then there is the new 'presence', wearing a hat, my Everlast 'speed ball' in pigskin, on spring with suction cup.  Exactly like a human head, and like a Fig.  Perfection, itself, Leonardo, Albrecht, Franz, Leger. You are all so sweet.

Oh, on Easter, my niece's boyfriend, was playing with Nerf blades, and shields and the two French girls under six were en guard.  I picked up the dagger and gave him the 'coup de grass'  Funny, that the other day, and I can't remember where, someone said, "Ugh.  And the French with their guillotine!"  I stopped the conversation by interjecting, "That is a kind kill.  And everyone under it knew it."  But, I still thought coup de grass meant head on the ground.  Chuckle.   And, Hemingway, he too looks at me, from the Vinca, with the same speed ball on a stand, on his porch.  I should have such a stand.  The first toy I remember was a punching bag, a weighted thing, my height at three and four, that kept getting knocked about by me, my dog, the chiffarobe door, and always came back for more.  Maybe that is why I used to not startle!  Good training for French girls and for Native Americans.  And that Hellion needs some moccasins.  I have orange socks for her.  She hates the shoes.  I always say, each toe is a brain. because it is true.  And truth is beauty.  Beauty is truth.  Oh, and here is a link never to forget a wonderful blog, a new artist who will grab my wrist and swing me to the back of the saddle, Fernand Leger at  I must depart to check him out on YouTube now.  And you should be grateful I have left the details of these last four days out.

Friday, April 6, 2012


I remember well my fourth grade reader from the Catholic Diocese of Baltimore.  So much colonial stuff, and it was my entry into the literary and the sense of touch and feel evoked,  and the waiting for the unloading of necessities and fripperies to the homesteads on the James River, or any other inhabited river in Colonial Times.  Dimity.  Dimity.  Such a pretty word.  And the young colonial girl was waiting for, and anxious to unpack what was on order for her family.  She was most excited about 'dimity' and ribbons.

When I started this blog, there was an incident or a sighting of the word, and the 'rising up a balloon' feeling of an evoked memory.  Dimity.  Dimity.  And, I had just happened into some ribbon, Vichy Plaid, that I had written a separate blog about .That ribbon seemed to attract me like a point on a compass. And where do I arrive at, but at a fantastic site, Thistle Hill Weavers.  I could follow it all day, but the time is not there today.

Also, I always wanted to work in fabric technology, as a chemist of the christal and organic type.  My life did not work out to that result.  But, I did stop in at Edenton, North Carolina, one day in the early 1970's, and driving around found some single story brick long building, much like brick railroad cars, as I walked around and stretched my legs.  I found an open machine entry area, and called out.  My voice echoed in the silence, but a person eventually appeared.  It was a real, operating cotton mill, taking cotton from the bales to threads.  I couldn't believe it.  He offered me a quick tour and I saw where the bales came in, and actually saw some of it being spun and wound to large cones of thread.  They would be shipped out to a dying facility.  When I left, I headed towards the main street, and a little museum, and my leonine hair was coated with whisps of cotton, as if I had gone prematurely grey, a frosting, if you will.

I loved stopping in at Edenton over the next couple university years, to eat at little place right off the highway.  When hurricane Isabel came thru back about ten years or so ago, Edenton had lost 80 percent of its trees in the little town.  But, I am sure those that were worth it were preserved, and pruning and seeing light thru windows that had formerly been shady had required that steps be taken to protect fabric and rugs.

Anyway, here is the definition of dimity, followed by the Thistle Hill Weavers site, the deserves being explored in every nook and cranny.  

dimity,  (from Greek dimitos, “of double thread”), lightweight, sheer cotton fabric with two or more warp threads thrown into relief, forming fine cords. Originally dimity was made of silk or wool, but since the 18th century it has been woven almost exclusively of cotton.
The name was applied to two types of corded cottons: a heavy material used for bedcovers, drapery, and the like, and a lightweight, almost sheer fabric either corded or made in check effects. Dimity now refers primarily to the latter. (Encyclopedia Britanica on line)
DIMITY SITE:   Thistle Hill Weavers:    CLICK HERE:

Thursday, April 5, 2012

A Thread...perhaps a rope, On Good Friday, too!

All will come clear in the reading of this work on line  Click here:
 The book is Balloons, by Princess Bibesco,
Here is the first page of the chapter :HAVEN

"You should only," we are told, "wear white in early youth and old age.
It is very becoming with a fresh complexion or white hair. When you no
longer feel as young as you were, other colours are more flattering.
Also, you should avoid bright lights and worry."

Here, the beauty specialist reminds you of the specialist who says in
winter, "Avoid wet feet and germs." In spite of both, we are still
subjected to sunshine and anxiety and rain and microbes.

But there are risks which the would-be young can and should avoid.
Surely Miss Wilcox ought to have known better than to flop down on the
grass with an effort and a bump, clasping (with some difficulty) her
knees because Vera, who is sixteen, slim and lithe, with the gawky grace
of a young colt, had made such an obvious success of the operation!

It is better not to sit on the grass after thirty when sprawling at all
is difficult, let alone sprawling gracefully.

Poor Miss Wilcox! At seventeen she had been a pretty, bouncing girl with
bright blue eyes, bright pink cheeks and brighter yellow hair. All the
young men of the neighbourhood had kissed her in conservatories or
bushes and to each in turn, she had answered, "Well, I never!"

Then an era of intellectual indifference to the world set in. She read
Milton in a garret and ate very little. When addressed, she gave the
impression of being suddenly dragged down from some sublime pinnacle of
thought. This was the period of absent-mindedness, of untidiness, of
unpunctuality, for she was convinced that these three ingredients
compose the spiritual life. But it was not a success. True, her cheeks
lost their roses, but without attaining an interesting transparent
whiteness and her figure became angular, rather than thin. Cold food,
ugly clothes and enforced isolation began to lose their charms and Miss
Wilcox abandoned the intellectual life.

First Page — Previous Page —  
— Next Page — My Bookmarks — Download Book
CLARENCE DAY at wikipedia is HERE
And, I got here thanks to this wonderful letter HERE
Enough for now.  I must read...