Back Home and Working

So I am home.  I gave myself a day off to think a bit and make a list of what I need to get accomplished the rest of this week.

Tomorrow, a baby shower, something I seldom get involved in. I would rather mail in a present than have to sit in a social situation and make polite conversation. Will there be shower games?  Horrors!  But Tisha is going with me and will hold my hand and make me behave.  Isn't that what a daughter-in-law is supposed to do?

I have to clean out my car, do some laundry and put away everything from the Mississippi tour.

By Monday, I have to have my accounts and tax forms ready for my accountant. That shouldn't take long, the file is well organized.

I have to get back to contacts in Ontario to see how we are doing on the Circle Tour around Lake Superior in July. That means writing around 25 e-mails.

On Monday, I have to pick up some posters for the romance novel signing Susan Manzke and I will have at Sissy's Treats and Treasures here in Seymour on Saturday. I have the day to get those posters up.  The box with Yesterday's Secrets, Tomorrow's Promises arrived while I was gone.  I'll be getting extra copies of Black Coffee Fiction, too.

I have to write some press releases about both books.

By Friday, I have to have another short story ready for the Black Coffee Fiction blog.  I don't have any ideas yet.  Perhaps the baby shower will inspire me.

Postcards

Today the snow storms were over and the road crews in Illinois and Wisconsin did their magic. By 3:30 I was home placating Rascal Cat with treats and petting.  Gary is home, too, at least until Monday. Feels good to have our little family together again. 

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Whenever I used to go somewhere, I sent postcards home to Evan, my grandson, both so he got mail, but also to give him a sense of geography. It was easy enough.  I found a good assortment whenever I stopped for gas.  Every service station had colorful cards to choose from.  At least that's the way it used to be. 

This time was different. I couldn't find cards anywhere.  I stopped at every welcome center.  No postcards except for promotional cards for businesses.  

I tried Walgreens.  I've often found postcards there, but no luck.  

I finally found two postcards for Evan at a beach side souvenir shop in Biloxi and sent those. 

It is a sign of the times.  These days people take digital vacation photos with their cameras or cell phones or other devices and send them to their friends and families immediately. Why bother with a piece of pasteboard that requires a stamp and a trip to a post box?  

I understand that, but since Evan is still too young to have his own e-mail account, I'll keep on trying. 

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Wade Peterson posted his latest short story today at Black Coffee Fiction.  Check it out at 

http://blackcoffeefiction.blogspot.com   It's the tale of the perfect late night clerk at a convenience store. 

Now that Wade has moved with his family to Arkansas, we must do our writing long distance, so I was pleased to see his story show up on time.  Next week it is my turn.  

Sleet and Photos

Today, it was sleet and snow in Dixon, Illinois and it was worse farther north.  Gary had plans to leave for Seymour today, leaving me here to tend cats and visit his aunt, but instead we had a day of napping.  I needed that, but I am tempted to drive south tomorrow instead of north to Rascal and home.

I begin the process of sorting out my thoughts about the trip. I almost never have a trip that doesn't glean a treasure of stories.

I begin with photos. For instance, the Coca Cola museum:

The museum behind the Grenada City Hall is full of Coke glasses, Coke toys, Coke platters and more.  The clerk who showed me the place told me that it was just a place for people to dump their stuff.  There were no real treasures here.  When there are hundreds of Coke glasses, one of them isn't worth much. Museums are great depositories when you are clearing your garage.

One nice thing about southern cemeteries is that the marble tombstones don't wear down the way our northern ones do.Early on, Wisconsinites switched to granite. At the Yellow Fever Graveyard in Grenada, I found this tombstone of someone who was born in 1792, but the name of deceased was broken off.  After the yellow fever epidemic in the 1880's, the cemetery was abandoned. 

At the Confederate Soldiers Cemetery, I walked around the graves wondering about the boys who lie there. There are 180 graves, none of them marked. Stan Rogers wrote a song with the line, "not one in ten thousand knows your name."  In this case no one knows their names. Oh, the futility of war, but come the next one, boys and now girls will volunteer, pumped up with patriotism and anxious for a great adventure will enlist and there will be more cemeteries. 

But nature endures. In spring, the wild buttercups poke through the leaves and arbutus.  Later in the summer the grass will be mowed so these early flowers are the only flowers laid on the graves.

In the course of my drive, public radio programs were repeated over and over.  One was about the XLerator hand dryer that dries much faster than any others...but is also noisier.  I finally found one at a service station and tried it out.  It was incredibly noisy.  Given a choice of an XLerator, a more common model, or a paper towel, people go to a fourth option.  They dry their hands on their pants. 

In a Missouri rest stop, I found another option:

It is an automatic hand washer/dryer.  Hands go in the center of the thing and are sprayed with soap and water continually for the requisite 20 seconds. Then the dryer finishes the job. I tried it out of curiosity but gave up on the dryer and finished by wiping my hands on my pants.

Driving to Illinois

As a rule I try to keep driving on my tours to seven hours or less.  Today was an exception.

I set my alarm for 6:00 and was on the road by 7:30.  I drove for seven hours with only one stop for gas and another for lunch and figuring out where I was.

At 2:00 I was in Jacksonville to set up for a talk about my travels.  I had time to run over to the Salvation Army to buy a shirt to go with my purple jumper. I was down to the last clean clothes.

I finished the talk at 4:00 and left Jacksonville soon after. I got lost in in the city but it was only temporary since the sun was setting and I wanted to go east.  After driving down country roads for a while, I spotted the prison in the distance and then straightened myself out.

Then it was interstate highways for five hours, going from one to another until I reached Dixon where I immediately got lost again.  Everything looked different in the dark.  I circled around until I got my bearings at McDonalds and headed to Plock Road and Gary.

We were planning on going on to Seymour tomorrow but Gary reports that Wisconsin is going to have yet another blizzard, so here we stay until Friday.

Tomorrow I will reflect on the trip.    

Grenada

Tonight I am back at Sikeston, Missouri.  I am so tired after the long drive from Grenada.

But before the drive, before this afternoon's performance, I explored Grenada.  It seemed to be just another small town but darned if I didn't find interesting things.

I did a little walking at the Chakchiuma Swamp, admiring the Tupelo gum trees and bald cypress and admiring my favorite blooming vine, the periwinkle. But too many hunters had trimmed their deer there so there were carcasses everywhere.

I moved on.  I had read about a couple of cemeteries I wanted to see but I didn't have a map, so I stopped at City Hall. They had no maps but wondered if I wanted to see the Coke museum which was at the back of the building. It was filled with anything Coca-Cola produced from signs to glassware.  There were  Coke pillows, Coke trays, Coke toys.

The clerk did know where the Yellow Fever Cemetery was. Yellow fever hit the town of 2,000 in 1878, killing 367.  I wandered around looking at many tombs of children.  It seemed to kill the very old and the very young that year.

I went on, and found myself at the Grenada County offices.  There, I found a map and was able to find the Confederate Cemetery which is behind the Oddfellows Cemetery.  Here, covered with arbutus flowers were 180 unmarked graves.  I had noted in the Hattiesburg graveyard that there didn't seem to be any graves of young men.  I wonder if some of those Hattiesburg boys were buried here.

I took the scenic route on Highway 333 and found a Grenada Confederate Fort. Forts were built here to protect the town from the forces led by General Grant.  All that remains are some earthwork fortifications and cannons.  All around bright red cardinals and I observed that the men who came and died here left little behind, but the cardinals are likely descendants of some that were flying around here centuries before the Civil War.

And with that, I was at the nursing home for yet another performance with another good audience, followed by a six hour drive here.

One more performance tomorrow and I will join Gary in Dixon.

A Morning at Oxford, Minnesota

Today, I drove through Oxford on my way to New Albany, Mississippi.  I started early because I wanted to check out Old Miss. I wandered around the campus a bit but didn't feel the Civil Rights Era.  It felt like any other campus to me.

I went to the Old Miss museum to see what the curators had on the era, but the museum was closed.  I had forgotten that museums are almost always closed on Sundays and Mondays.  This was upsetting because nature was calling and I sure could use a restroom.

I noticed a sign for a trail and took a closer look. The sign said that the trail through Bailey's Woods led to Ronan Oaks, which of course was William Faulkner's home. I took off down the trail and though I had to climb up and down gullies, I did indeed come to the parking lot of Ronan Oaks.  I was all alone so I walked around the property.

Faulkner's house, an 1844 mansion on 29 acres, was certainly fancier than Eudora Welty's home in Jackson, but I thought hers looked more comfortable.

Still, it does look like the kind of house one would write "A Rose for Emily", one of the most depressing short stories I've ever read.

Those twenty nine acres came in handy.  Faulkner's house was closed on Monday, too, and nature was still calling.  I walked back into Bailey's woods and found a secluded spot.

Next, a nursing home performance in New Albany with some hilarious seniors. They all loved to hear about Gary's great aunt Alice and her boyfriend.  Every one of my venues has been successful  so far. They all want me to come back.

But now I am on the home stretch.  The next two days will be brutal, performances and long driving stretches.  Early to bed. 

Birds and a Writer

While I've been in the south I've been seeing old friends I won't see in Wisconsin until April.

All up and down Highway 49 the turkey buzzards were circling, looking for whatever the traffic managed to run down, mostly skunks and raccoons.  At times there were flocks of a dozen or more.  They are nature's cleanup crew, so I appreciate them.

The motel in Hattiesburg was surrounded by killdeer. They went berserk whenever I came out the door of my room so there are must have been eggs in the gravel drive.  Nearby, red-winged blackbirds were flocking, and I suppose they will be working there way north in another month or so.  We'll see them in April.

There were the birds that will never come north, like the brown pelicans and a sandpiper I couldn't identify because I forgot my binoculars.

All of this avian life will be with us up north in a little over two months. They remind me that though I am driving toward snow and cold, I will soon be reunited with those friends.

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On my way south, I didn't have time to stop at Jackson, the capital of Mississippi, but this day I wanted to take time.  Not to see the state's capital but to see this house.

This is the house where Eudora Welty lived, a Pulitzer prize winner for her novel The Optimist's Daughter but also one of the greatest authors of short stories.  I first read one of her stories when I was in high school.  Now that I am writing short stories myself I can admire her expertise even more.

The house is now a Mississippi landmark.  It was closed on Sunday of course, but I could peer over barriers at her garden. She and her mother planted most of the flowers here. I especially liked the paper narcissus, which won't bloom in my garden until May.

On the west side of the house is a shaded porch.  I pictured Miss Welty sitting with her mother at sunset. I wonder if her neighbors appreciated her genius or thought her an odd spinster. Did they realize that her stories were her children, the gifts she sent out to the world?

On Monday, I will stop in Oxford to see if I can find William Faulkner's ghost.  I may visit Old Miss, too, to pay homage to James Meredith and the civil rights struggles.