AN UPDATE

 Painting in oils. To cheer you because it's so very jolly: Mother and child ladybird, by Isaac Vaught, aged 6.


AND AN UPDATE

With the blog and my Indian tea party fund raiser, we've raised over £500. I am aiming for £1,000 - and remember that I will be selling an edited version of the short stories on the blog as a paperback from November. It would help me if you could tell anyone you know (who might vaguely be interested) about this blog. If you would like to sponsor this project, start at £1! I do appreciate it. I have not to date had any support or interest from local press despite the fact that it is a BOA charity (apart from the town's venerable magazine: thank you Jackie) so word of mouth or a link would be cracking!

AND DON'T FORGET THE NEXT EVENT: A PAY WHAT YOU WILL YARD SALE

MY PLACE

8TH JULY

FROM 7.30

Anna. x

Johnny Cash, in a lift, in Dallas, Texas

For Paul.

"I was told that when Bob Dylan met John -- I think it was at the Newport Folk Festival-- he circled John, bent slightly forward and smiling up at him with pure admiration."1

When he was ten, my husband happened to be in an elevator in a hotel in Dallas, Texas. In walked a tall man; the boy looked at the man's shoes. From there, it was a long way up, but look he did. The boy saw that it was Johnny Cash. No, he must be wrong. But hang on, Johnny Cash must have had to ride in an elevator sometime, so he looked again. He nudged his little brother: "Curtis, I think it's Johnny Cash." Maybe the man heard him; maybe not, but he smiled and grinned a broad grin and nodded: "Hellllllllo boys." A low, slow, warm voice.

The youth was starstruck and cannot remember if he said hello back; little brother was possibly unmoved, being too young to understand that, maybe, Johnny Cash was not to be seen riding in an elevator with you any day of the week. Upstairs, or maybe it was on another occasion, he learned that his mother had gone into labour with him (in Georgia) while watching Johnny Cash on a t.v. show. Now, these little links; they kind of went in deep. Plus Cash was, like him, a Southern man.

As an adult, he would listen and feel at home.Cash was flawed, both powerful and weak. He had struggled with addiction and insecurity, gone on a journey from the cotton fields of Arkansas to, well, a meeting with a luminary or, say, The President. He had Faith that was both angry and beautiful and music that haunted. So why not share? Well, that's what our grown up boy from the elevator in Dallas did. Best of all, he shared  American Recordings, which was played again and again in the house and, for a quiet moment when no-one knew what to do -he suspected that Johnny Cash would have shrugged off the fact of their doing this- 'Down there by the train.' Now, there was a song that could still a room or a nervy individual with its invocation to meet him if you had "taken the low road"; if you had "done the same." "There's a place I know", sang Cash - a place where he saw "Judas Iscariot carrying John Wilkes Booth." So, if you dear reader, especially you dear British reader, have not taken a look or a listen, may I suggest you go back and listen again and get to know him a bit. Not that I'm putting him on a pedestal, or nuthin.'

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Notes: American Recordings. Easy to download - you might try MP3 Panda. So cheap you wonder if it's legal (it is).


1. The Man Called Cash by Steve Turner (London, Bloomsbury, 2006). This was the first authorised biography. Quotation from the foreword by Kris Kristofferson, p. ix.


And, if you're unsure, Judas Iscariot betrayed Jesus for pieces of silver; John Wilkes Booth assassinated Abraham Lincoln.

The photo is by Mollipop at www.flickr.com. I LOVE it. She has written underneath "Cash. Still there." Absolutely. And thank you.
This is a true story. Elevator, labour and all.

The cucumber sandwich

Cucumber sandwiches. High tea somewhere in the past, which is another country. Cucumber  sandwiches are those that you neglect to prepare. Predictable. Maybe so predictable that you forgot all about them and how extravagantly delicious they were.

But on this particular afternoon, the sandwiches had not been forgotten. A screened porch in Virginia and an English-style tea today. Hot tea, iced tea, the cucumber sandwiches -with no crusts, to be sure- ham sandwiches, strawberry shortcake and an English fruit cake. In Britain, those same sandwiches, but also ham, scones with some home made jam, the absence of iced tea and rock cakes made by a child in the family.

In Virginia, it was stiflingly hot and the guests came, grateful for the swooping fans and the tea and the cool of those lovely cucumber sandwiches. It all looked lovely. But the hostess was simmering, although nothing was said. There was a sighing just about audible, but no-one said anything or asked what was the matter. Someone might have wondered whether a fainting couch was around, for this was suffering pure and simple: I invited you but I do not particularly want you in my house. I wish I had never thought of it.

Back in Britain, the gloves were off. It didn't take long for a comment to be made. Did you not like the scones? You clearly didn't want to come, did you? Why does no-one else make an effort? It's always me. At least it was quiet, there in the Blue Ridge - but the atmosphere would do well to be cut with a knife. As an experiment. In Britain the knives had been slammed down on the worktop, a visual index of how little she was appreciated. No more cutting today, then.

Outside, summer blazed on. Inside, we resorted to near fisticuffs or a glint of resentment in a smiling face. Depending on where we took our tea that day. 

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Disclaimer: this is NOT about anyone I know. It may, however, make some suggestion about how women are martyred in the Southern United States and in, well, Wales.

Amtrak with Ned

Washington. Baby in arms. The Capitol, Smithsonian; half smoke hot dogs in the park. We caught the New Orleans train and I remember the baby, lying on his back with his arms held up high, as the view liner train went through the night and on into Virgina. I woke early and saw that we were in Georgia and that the earth, just by the track, was red. The baby was still asleep, the train rocking him; my husband beginning to stir on the bunk above mine. He raised his head: "We in Georgia yet?"

In the dining car a shower of ma'ams and y'alls and a shower of hands for the baby. We had grits and eggs and crisp bacon, with hot sauce. Scalding coffee to further wake us. The creepers and the red earth gave way to the suburbs of Atlanta and we were almost there. I'd always enjoyed the hoardings of the city as we approached it from Hartsfield airport: Free at Last Bail Bonds! Chicken Breast Strips Meal only $2.. Here, just flashes of garden, then creek, refuse by the side of the track, more red earth. Still the kitchen staff dandled the baby while others poured us endless coffee and we were content. I remember that my husband told me to get ready. I hadn't combed my hair but I put on some lipstick because I wanted my mother in law to think well of me when we arrived. Silly, really, what with the baby being the show, not me. I remember that he was dressed in a bright red all in one we called the 'firework suit.' We were there.

Just a memory. Of being in motion and being at ease. Also, a testament to the South and why central government should not have slashed the Amtrak budget, if you're asking.


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Photo (I cheated slightly , this train is actually a North bound one coming up from  Florida to Virginia....) courtesy of John H Gray; he has a fine selection of Amtrak photos at www.flickr.com Thank you.

City of light, city of joy

Benares, Varanasi, one of the world's oldest inhabited cities. It was not his city, but he felt at home there. He sat by the river at dawn and people were there - countless people- praying and bathing and offering up what they could. The sun hit the water and he watched them, not able to offer a libation - just to watch. Efflorescence on the water. It was strange, then, that this moment was the one on which his life turned. He felt an impetus to move.

At the tiny stall of a man he had come to know, he brought tea. Took it back to the room and set it by her bed. Then, later, mangoes and tomatoes and onions and limes and some olive oil from the Ayurvedic shop to make a sort of dressing. He begged a hillock of salt. He thought she would be proud of what he had done.

On the balcony of the room, the light was dazzling. There, with what kit he had, he assembled breakfast for her, called her out from the room. She had drunk her tea but had drifted back to sleep. Lost. But now, she sat. He smoothed her hair, put on her hat for her and gave her what he had made. They said little as they ate and watched the sun on its ascent. The colour of the Ganges changed from white and yellow to the more familiar muddy brown.

Then he stood up and told her that, now, he would stop running, stop travelling and that, whenever he put one foot in front of the other, he would be with her. She understood and that was that.

In the lanes below, the monkeys chattered. They could scent the food he had prepared and were ready to steal. The heat of the day was becoming pressing already and the yoghurt sellers were doing a good trade from their trestles full of clay cups. Later she and he would pack up and move on, no longer alone.
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If you look at www.flickr.com there is an exquisite series of photos from Ahron de Leeuw, of which this is one. Thank you!

The house in Flatrock

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The house was really a wooden cottage; in another setting it might have been made out of gingerbread. It had window boxes full of red impatiens, still a thick fall of leaves on the ground from last autumn and the sound of a creek below it. Inside, the finds and hauls of a family over almost thirty years. A family escaping the city or sheltering from the storm with books and jigsaws and a making things drawer and a small radio. That night they drifted off to the sound of a small North Carolina radio station playing Cousin James and they felt proud.

It was early summer and there was a storm. Earlier, he had told her the storms in the South come in with a faint whoosing sound, a whisper at first. A shift in the tenor of the air. She woke to it. And felt its warmth before the explosion of thunder and lightning. They were sleeping in the loft of the house and they felt themselves being shaken by the storm outside and she wondered if one of the tall trees all around would fall. The children crawled into bed with them, shaking and sobbing a little: "I'm frightened."

Morning found the house still, intact and the air clear. The children ran in pyjamas to the creek, burying their toes in the mud and slipping over the wet rocks. A small and sleepy snake reared its head from the shallows, gave a half-hearted hiss, showed its fangs briefly and nestled back into the mud. Strangely no-one said anything.

Inside, coffee was brewing and the radio station was on again. Mom was up and doing, immaculate as always, and making bagels with cream cheese to eat on the screened porch. The children's father was still asleep, a half smile playing at his lips. Their mother would sit on the swing seat to eat breakfast; she would not wake him yet.

Simple really, but there it is.
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Flatrock is a community in the mountains of North Carolina. Photo courtesy of Appalachian Encounters at www.flickr.com Thank you.

Crummy mummy has a comeback! Bonus story

Thursday! Top day for Crummy Mummy! She was delighted, for a start, by the comment of a friend who had written, online, that really the earlier chapter of Crummy mummy was the story of "Yummy mummy and her magnificent breasts." But, aha! I can shoot that one down, for I am wearing St Tropez tan and have hoicked up the breasts", thought crummy mummy victoriously. This is a curious game that introverted and self conscious women - possibly all women - tend to play. Yes: she knows. It isn't big and it isn't clever, either.

Hmmm: open classroom day in crummy mummy's corner of the world. Senior has made a Japanese garden; Junior is doing France. "What do they do in France, then?" asked crummy mummy, keen to be supportive of the teachers' work. "They have markets with cheese and eggs and they speak France language."

Crummy mummy visits Senior's room: she notices he is wearing his t shirt inside out and has a black pencil-covered nose, like a teddy bear. He shows her a Japanese garden. "That's lovely darling." "It's probably not mine", says he, "because we tried to make a pond with the crab shell you gave me, but the shell leaked and the garden flooded and the cardboard collapsed and then it fell on the floor." There are some exquisite gardens on display, though. Also, Senior looks happy and he gives her the "easy" entry level Sudoku puzzle sheet because he reckons she won't be able to do the hard ones. Crummy mummy does, however, score full marks in the "put the events of the Buddha's life in the right order" task. "It's time for you to go now" says Senior "Or you'll do that thing where you start teaching people."

Senior's class teacher tells her that he's a bit confused by the movements in the Japanese dance which they will perform in front of parents and pupils a little later. In the event it doesn't matter because Senior has placed himself, as in previous years, behind a pillar. Crummy mummy gets her 2010 "shots of the pillar" to show daddy. In the same arena, Junior performs a French song with accompanying hand movements. He performs with gusto, having told her before that the song is called "John Petinkee dancer." "I think it might be called "Jean le petit dance -eu (little French grunt and inflexion), darling." "Don't be silly mummy: his name is John Petinkee." During the performance, crummy mummy notices a preponderance of Boden matelo stripes and attractive red and blue shorts, echoing the French flag. Junior is wearing turquoise beach shorts and a home made effort on top: a white t shirt with a French flag on it displaying the legend "Vive La France."

"Well", said yummy mummy, "we all tried our best." Back home, she awards herself a yellow merit certificate and fills the too small paddling pool so that the kids can have a punch up in it before tea.

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Well, never say I'm not versatile: you got graveside wonderings and comedy crummy mummy back to back today! xxxx