Doris Lessing and Staying on the Chair

Dear Doris Lessing,

I've been listening to your interview on the Nobel site. Fascinating I think.

Doris Lessing Documentary it's called, I believe. I like all the parts, but my favorite is there at the end, round about minute 7:53.

"What you don't know about is old age, you see." That's how you start the segment. Oh, my yes. That is so true. "Being old, believe me, is hard work," you conclude. But I want to talk to you about that statement in the middle regarding falling off a chair. Your statement was like a painting. Maybe this one. Of course the model in the chair isn't old enough. But still. Staying aboard a chair in the world of art is challenging. I think, though, you were speaking of dying. Passing on and crashing down off a chair or anywhere really, because you are done here.

Purple Robe and Anemones, or more correctly, Robe violette et Anemones, by Matisse is interesting. Not much chair there. She looks a bit like she is hovering, back there behind the anemones. She is relaxed there. But, I agree with you, the project of staying seated becomes more and more disconcerting and demanding of a great deal of concentration as we age.

The anemone, I read, is, "a short-lived flower (from Greek anemos, wind), it is a symbol in antiquity of the transitory. It is the flower of Adonis, whom Venus transformed into a reddish-purple anemone. In Christian symbolism, anemones (as well as roses and marguerites) signify the blood shed by the saints."

Shshshshshhs. "The voice said, Cry. And he said, What shall I cry? All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field:
The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: because the spirit of the LORD bloweth upon it: surely the people is grass.
The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: but the word of our God shall stand for ever." (Isaiah 40)

So, Doris, is that what you are talking about? Just trying to stay on the chair becomes, after we lose the blush, after we fade the lush, after the wither, after we start gasping just getting up, a matter of life and death.

That, I think is what the young find hard to imagine.

In April of 1998, Lydia Delectorskaya fell off her chair. She was 87 and sitting in Paris. It is said that she single-handedly kept Matisse on his chair for the last ten years of his life that slipped to the rug in 1954. She was a far cry, that Thursday in '98, from the young woman we see in this purple robe, sniffing anemones. But we are all a far cry from what we were, aren't we Doris?

What shall we cry, after all, when all flesh is as grass? I guess we cry, "Could you help me stay in the chair, just one more day?" Then we shift on the cushions.

Best, always,

Betsy

God Forgive Me! Simon and Garfunkel 101

Dear Barack Obama,

This little clip is not the whole of the "Voices of Old People" segment on the Simon and Garfunkel Bookends album. And, it ends, "God forgive me." I think the actual album quote continues, (my memory isn't as good as it used to be) "An old person without money, is pathetic." And oh, yes, how true that is.

But honey, anyone, young or old, without money, without the hope of money, without the power for generating money, is pathetic. That is the plight, that is the fear, that is the demon of the poor.

Let me repeat a little story from one of my favorite Nobel Peace Prize winners, Muhammad Yunus. (Quoted from USA Today on May 21, 2008)

The way he tells the story, every time a new head of the World Bank is named, he calls Yunus. When James Wolfensohn became World Bank president, he welcomed Yunus to lunch and began to quiz him about his recently announced goal for reducing — and ultimately eliminating — poverty.

"I understand you intend to lift 100 million people out of poverty," Wolfensohn said.

"That's right," Yunus told him.

"Don't you think that's a little overly ambitious?" asked Wolfensohn.

"No," said Yunus. "We've looked at the numbers and we think we can do it. But," Yunus went on, "if you think it's too ambitious, what do you think is a better number?"

When Wolfensohn didn't answer, Yunus offered a number.

"10 million?"

Wolfensohn shook his head. Too low.

"20 million?" Yunus offered.

From Wolfensohn's reaction it was clear that number was still too low.

"How about 50 million?" Yunus asked.

Wolfensohn seemed pleased by that number.

"That sounds about right, " he said.

"OK," Yunus told him, "you do 50 million and I'll do 100 million."

And that's how you win the Nobel Peace Prize: by making peace with the powers-that-be, the keepers of the status quo, rather than by declaring war on them.

Next week, Barack, as you accept the Democratic nomination for President of the United States, and as you talk about change, talk about this. Talk about changing the capitalist system that so empowers the already rich, the fat businesses, the oil monopolies, the "haves", and so disempowers the poor, the poor, the poor, the "have nots". Tell us that the United States will join with the World Bank and Muhammad Yunus, and say: "We'll work on our 36 million." They are ours. We'll take care of them." I don't want to hear about what we can't do Barack, because, we are spending so much on war. I want to hear how we can end poverty for our 36 million.

Anything less, is pathetic.

BRD

PS If you are at a loss for ideas on how to do this, call Muhammad Yunus.

PPS Biden? My husband is pleased.

Bethel Community Club--An Open Letter to Non-Members

Note: Welcome to Guest Writer, CADH8! She knows of my continuing interest in the doings of people of central Tennessee and has graciously sent this open letter to non-members. The open roads running south along Leiper's Creek epitomize charm. But it's the people who live there that make this community a wonderful place to live or visit. They are gracious, friendly, and never lacking in kind hospitality.

Thanks for your letter CADH8!


To all non-club members:

cc: Bethel Community Club members

Dear folks,

I am writing this letter to extend an invitation of membership to our club, the Bethel Community Club. We meet on the first Monday of every month, right here in historic Bethel, TN.

Bethel is a small corner of the world, just south of Leiper's Fork, although please don't think we are a simple extension of that burgh. (Make such an association in the presence of Garfield, or worse, his wife Doris, and you will receive a scolding the likes of which you have never experienced.) No, we are a place in our own right. Newly posted signs mark both edges of this unincorporated town, thanks to Reece, who had some connections that helped to provide this distinction.

Settled in the early 19th century, or perhaps before, there has only been electricity, running water, and indoor plumbing in many local homes for perhaps the past 50 years. Many a club member knows what it means to kill his own food and then chop the wood to cook it with while his wife hauls the water to cook it in. But we are moving into the 20th century, although we understand that everyone else has now moved on into the 21st. No matter, we won’t let ourselves be rushed.

We are a right vibrant club, although the average age of members is probably around 70. It is not required that you live in Bethel to be a member, but it is suggested, for where else would you rather live after all? The only membership requirements are that you pay your dues and do your part, which means helping with the annual Fish fry and Homecoming events.

Inflation reaches all areas, sadly, and dues have doubled in the past year! We had to raise our fee from $5 per family per year to a full $10. And on top of that, even members must pay to rent the building now...a steep $25 per day. However, it is $50 for non-members, so you can see the benefits of joining.

Founded in the 80s, (that’s 1980’s) many of the original members still direct this group and attend every function. Many former members are not members of this world any longer, for if they were, we know they would still be present club meetings and bringing covered dishes to the functions. As stated above, the main functions of the club are holding an annual fish fry and an annual homecoming. Club members cook lots of pies and other food items in preparation. There is often something raffled off (although some in the community refuse to participate as such activities smack of gambling) for the sake of building club coffers. At homecoming there is a train ride and horse shoe competition. All proceeds go to the club that in turn tries to help the community as needs arise.



You could not ask for a better group of people than our members. And you don’t have to do much for them to win their hearts forever--just be a willing worker with a love for this place. Do this and you will have all of Bethel at your side if ever you find yourself in need. Why just this month we are giving a benefit for a local couple who have hit hard times. We will spend the day selling BBQ plates, pies, glasses of tea, and chances on a shotgun, and auctioning off all sorts of items in the hopes of making their lives a bit easier. Everyone will do their part. I am making 2 pies, myself. What will you do?

Well, time for me to close, ya’ll. We hope to see you soon down at the club.

Your friend and neighbor,

Cadh8

P.S. Come on down Leipers Creek Road. Watch for Nett's Country Store and Deli on the right. Turn in there and bear left. You'll see the club straight on.


Or, you can take the scenic route and go down the Natchez Trace Parkway and get off on Hwy. 7 in Fly (where you might want to look out for such famous people as Nicole Kidman or Keith Urban when they aren't off to Australia), then come up Leipers Creek that way.

DeGeorge Garden 2008

Dear Mother,

I'm sorry that you didn't get to see my garden this summer, so I'm posting a garden visit here.

(Note on the video sound track: I really do know that those yellow flowers are Black Eyed Susans.)

Plus I wanted to show you some pictures of our freshly sanded and painted rod iron railing on the back deck. My husband did an amazing job, don't you think. First he used a metal grinding kind of wheel on it. Then some kind of sanding cloth. Next Rustoleum Reformer. Then, finally, a black gloss Rustoleum enamel paint. I had feared that our only hope was an expensive replacement, but this turned out quite nicely. Now he is working on the support problems for the deck itself.
Perhaps next summer it will be time to give the deck itself a new face. Any ideas?

Plus, I'm adding a photo of three of my favorite things. Smile.

Love,

Betsy

Dear Readers

I must apologize for my absence. I have been busy and not writing too much, although, I hope to be writing to Doris Lessing and Langston Hughes real soon. Plus, I may have another note for Zora Neale Hurston, too. Oh, more good news! I hope to have a ghost writer do a piece for you all soon. I might write a postscript because it is such an exciting subject. I won't say that it has anything to do with Netts Country Store and Deli, but it does!!!! Then there is a letter that simply must be written to Mary Lee Bendolph that relates to the quilts of Gee's Bend. Oh, and I have so much to tell Barack in prep for the convention.

So, you see that the postal pack of the carrier from Loudon, TN will be filled during the late summer. But for now, I thought I would post a link to the results of my busyness, just to let you know I haven't wasted all of this hot summer on horseback.

The ACSI Europe web site

This is the first draft of a web site I have been working on for ACSI Europe. It was a little tricky since it is a redundant site serving 8 language groups. And I, unfortunately, only know one of them. I was working on issues of navigation and encoding. Oh dear, you just cannot know. The nav choice was an exciting one for me though. The flash file is driven by an XML file, making it very versatile. You code warriors will understand my thrill. Oh, and yes, let me know if you find any broken links.

Write soon!

Betsy

Ich bin ein Berliner!

"The walls between old allies on either side of the Atlantic cannot stand. The walls between the countries with the most and those with the least cannot stand. The walls between races and tribes, natives and immigrants, Christian and Muslim and Jew cannot stand. These now are the walls we must tear down."
SENATOR BARACK OBAMA, speaking in Berlin.




Presidents are great ones for making speeches in Berlin. You probably don't remember John F. Kennedy, do you? He had such a smart wife. She knew languages and people. But she was on the quiet side. Upper crust. Back then, if a woman used a family name as a middle name they were upper crust. Later on, they were feminists. But JFK made a great speech in Berlin one time. "Ich bin ein Berliner," he said.



Kennedy is remembered for this line. It was actually a gaff of sorts. "All free men, wherever they may live, are citizens of Berlin, and, therefore, as a free man, I take pride in the words "Ich bin ein Berliner!" Apparently after the show, Jacqueline corrected Jack's grammar, telling him that he had actually told the crowd, "I am a jelly donut." The crowd was forgiving and the speech went off famously.

Then there was the speech that Ronald Reagan made. That was significant.



When I was a little girl, the great communist horror was symbolized by a great wall in Berlin that symbolized oppression and lack of free speech, movement, and commerce.

"Mr. Gorbachev, open this gate. Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall," said Reagan in 1987. And within a short while really, gates were opened and the wall came down. People took pieces of that wall and gave them as souvenirs.

Even Bill Clinton made a speech in Berlin, where he tried his hand at simple German. "Berlin ist frei" ("Berlin is free"), he said, in July of 1994.

So you have added your voice to a great crowd of witnesses to the importance of . . . what? Our relationship to Germany? Maybe. Or maybe to just to the power of language and the fine way words can go together. I'm glad your voice resonates so well.

BRD

A Simple Love Like That

Dear Son and Friend,

I was listening to a song by Alison Krauss yesterday. I do enjoy her music. Is it bluegrass, folk, some kind of country? Whatever it is, I like it. She sang a ballad entitled Simple Love. Click that link to see the full lyrics.

But here is the gist of it, she describes her grandfather and his love for his family and wishes:

I want a simple love like that,

Always giving never asking back.

When I'm in my final hour looking back

I hope I had a simple love like that.

That is a great lyric.

But, as I think about it, is that what I believe about love? Yes and no. I believe that lyric describes the beauty of a wonderful friendship. Friendship can and should be pretty openhanded, not asking too much. A nice friendship can operate uncommittedly, without demands. In a friendship, you can love, and give, and never ask back. In a friendship, if one person gives and the other does not, well, that's ok. The giving friend can either continue giving or stop. And that's ok. The definitions are loose. The love described in this song, is lovely. I envision a hand reaching out unclasped and another hand lying on top, supported but ungrasped. And if those two hands stay together for a long time. That is beautiful. And when I reach my final hour, I do hope that I can say, I've had some simple loves like that.

But let's talk about love in family and marriage. Does this lyric describe that kind of love in a healthy way? I have to say no. Marriage to me is a commitment to more than a simple love.

It is a promise of an extremely complicated and growing kind of love, not always asking, but sometimes asking, not always giving back, but as much as possible, giving back. The picture I have in my mind is of two hands grasping, clutching, holding on for dear life. Not a light touch, or a quick high five, but a desperate measure that withstands the wrenches and pulls of a mighty difficult tempest of a world.

When I was deciding to marry, one of the things that I considered was whether I could fight with that person, knock down, drag out, and come out the other side still holding on for dear life. Plus I wanted a person to whom I could go and say, "I need," with the confidence that he would say, "I care." And, I wanted to become a person to whom my spouse could come at the worst of times and say, "Help!" and I would be there to help. It isn't completely selfless, like Krauss would have us believe her grandfather was, but, I think it makes for a marriage that is a partnership.

My husband, (Dad to you) and I have endured some difficult times--illness, stress, financial crisis, junk--and at those times, a simple love did not get us through, but a complicated one did, one that was codependent and exhaustive, a love that asked and gave back, that gave and asked back.

I wish you that kind of love and a long life of giving, and taking.

MOM
XOX

Whose Eyes Were Watching God?

Dear Zora Neale Hurston,

I have discovered your work (imagine) after all these years. "Why," I thought, "had I never heard of you?" Then, I realized, that it was a matter of timing.

Alice Walker rediscovered you in 1975, the very year I left educational institutions behind and cloistered myself in a world of non-fiction and children's books, laundry and camping trips, churches and crock pots, Chinese culture (a blog topic for another day) and an occasional opera.

So Zora Hurston, author of Mules and Men, Their Eyes Were Watching God and, Seraph of the Suwanee was for me unknown until the renowned scholar Brannon Costello, author of Plantation Airs, pointed you out to me. At first, your work seemed a curiosity, for I started with Mules and Men. Almost quaint. I think I was surprised. As I read about your research I was reminded of some work I had done once in a small library operated in the basement of the Smoky Mountains tourist center. There, I sat sifting through old documents looking for curiosities of the region to supplement a project I was doing for a technology company.

I found stories written by "oldtimers," as they were called; I met people who had lived in the park area before they were forced to move out by FDR; I joined in some shaped note sings and generally fell in love with a very distinct cultural experience.

Your work carries that same beautiful colloquial feel, but it is different too. It liberally brandishes dialects and expressions, stories and myths, but I say the work is almost quaint because of my own quaint ignorance. It is not quaint, I think. It is instead, not written for me, not contingent upon me as a reader at all. It is not trying to charm me with its vernacular approach, but is simply exposing me to it. Me, an outsider, me, the stranger, me, odd man out.

Is that the power of your books resurrected in 1975 to a new life beyond the grave of the 50's and 60's? Is the immensity of your influence as a writer to been seen not in the remarkable anthropological assiduity of your work, but in the acceptance of the full human dialogue represented in the architecture of this language form. And you, Zora, refused to allow that dialogue to go unrecorded.

You said in your autobiography, "Research is formalized curiousity. It is poking and prying with a purpose. It is a seeking that he who wishes may know the cosmic secrets of the world and they that dwell therein."

Need I say that I'm impressed.

Betsy

Simon and Garfunkel 101: Ooh!

Woman 1: "Ooh! Let me show you. Let me show you our picture. This was me and my husband when we were first married."
Woman 2: "I always slept on one side, left room for my husband."
Woman 1: "And that's me when we were sixteen"
Woman 2: "But this, this, this, this is not the case. I still do it. I still lay on the half of the bed. (pause) We used to sneak in. . . "

Dear Barack Obama,

I've laid on my side of the bed almost longer than you have lived, so I want to tell you a little about loving and about growing up and what is important. And what it takes to get beyond 16. Too many people keep going back to 16, back to when we didn't know up from down or yes from no. But we do so need more real adults around here.

Back a ways, when I was 16, life and sex and marriage had a little different taste. Not that the sex drive has changed all that much. (Did you know that even old women can still pant long after their children think that our sexual pleasures should be relegated to long term memory?) But the flavor of sex back then was tinged with a certain reality. The reality was that sex often led to procreation. That procreation was good and anticipated by married couples. When my husband moved over into my side of the bed, we had fun and we had children.

But there was a dark side. Most of culture, religious and non-religious, painted that darkness upon couples, and, particularly, women who tasted sex and then pregnancy before they tasted a wedding cake. One of my first jobs was at a home for girls, "predelinquent girls" they were called. They carried with them a tang of the outcast, each wearing some style of scarlet letter affixed to their lives. People helped them, but not without attaching to these beautiful, young Eves a stigma, a curse.

The best thing that resulted from the 1973 Supreme Court decision, Roe v. Wade, was that some people finally were forced to reassess their view of women who carried children to birth, married or not. These women, we came to see, were neither delinquent nor cursed, but were indeed responsibly mature and blessed. That has been the shining beauty of Roe v. Wade. People think of Roe v. Wade as the decision that opened the doors to abortion. It did that. But I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about a cultural shift that has changed life for those women and girls who are not married but are pregnant and choose to give their babies birth.

I've raised three girls to womanhood. Any mother thinks, at some point, what words would I say, were my daughter (or son) to come to me and say, "I'm not married, but I'm going to have a child"? I decided what my response would be, were I ever to need one. My answer is, "A child is always good. Let us rejoice in this life. How wonderful!"

Last March, in answer to a question about this subject, you said, "Look, I got two daughters — 9 years old and 6 years old, I am going to teach them first about values and morals, but if they make a mistake, I don’t want them punished with a baby." Of course I don't agree with everything you say politically. But this isn't politics, so I'm going to give you some grandma type advice. If your daughters ever come to you and talk about a baby that is their own, DON'T call it a mistake. Don't curse that child. A life, young and new, whether mother or baby, is not delinquent because of a pregnancy. Call it beautiful. Call it blessed. Call it theirs. Call it yours. Call it love.


And punished? I think that there is a lie being told to a whole generation of potential parents. They are being told by everyone from Jerry Seinfeld to you, Barack Obama, that children are a punishment. This is a lie. I have never experienced any joy in life that even remotely compares to the joy of holding my babies. You know that I'm speaking the truth, because you have Malia and Sasha. Ooh, I'm not trying to be slobbery. I'm just reminding you, and a whole generation, that life and meaning is not found in self-indulgence and purposeless pleasuring. It is, however, found in the kind of responsible decisions and sacrifice that result in strong families and healthy children, like mine and like yours. It's no mistake and it is not punishment.

Sure, not everyone will become a parent, but the truth of the matter is, no one is ready to do it until they do it, and it is in this type of mature embracing of responsible living that brings an individual to adulthood. Fully responsible adults arise from the ranks of those who embrace their lives, their own and their children, not because they are picture perfect but because they are theirs, and because they savor the goodness that comes with it all.

And this, this, this, really is the case.

BRD

Why Opera! An Apology.

Dear Conversely,

I have been thinking about our conversation regarding opera. I understand that on the first listen an opera can be disconcerting and sometimes less than viscerally enjoyable. However, I wanted to explain why I love it so, and even if you don't become a fan, I know you will understand the basics of the attraction.

Opera, for me is more than a music genre. It doesn't exist, in my mind, as a contrast to Rock, Blues, Jazz, or Country (some of which I like). It exists, instead, as a higher form of art, and one that stands on a special plane because it combines so many things. Opera incorporates poetry and literature in the libretto, the highest form of vocal music, orchestral music, drama, as well as all the artistic accoutrements of extensive stage production with lighting, costuming, sets, even special effects.

As I listen to opera, I experience the same kind of heart-pounding awefilled response that one gets when reading a climactic line in a poem. The thing is, you get that, over and over, first through the libretto, then through a musical motif, then through fine acting, then through the profundity of the set design. And as with all good art, the more you see a particular opera, the better it gets. You begin to anticipate moments, saying in your mind, "How will this soprano treat the mad aria in I Puritani," or "Will they use the full dramatic effect of the orchestral interlude in the scene where Tosca murders Scarpia?"



Opera does take work to be able to enjoy it fully. Before I listen to an opera for the first time, I study a synopsis of the plot line. If I can, I find one with the musical motifs so I can play them on my piano and begin to familiarize myself with the sounds. After I have heard an opera several times, sometimes I get hold of a libretto to read the lyrics.

I have to say, our culture and educational system has done too little to train the ears of the general public for the appreciation of the higher forms of music in general and opera in particular. When I attend the opera here in Knoxville, I am always stunned that it is an event for the white hairs. I look around the still-crowded audience and see that it is composed of people my age or older, with a scattering of students. "My," I say to myself, "what they are missing." The Metropolitan Opera from NYC, in the last couple of years has been doing a great thing broadcasting a limited (and very fine) venue to high definition theaters. I think, actually, it may be rescuing opera for the next generation.

I was just a little younger than you when I first began listening to, and then, enjoying opera. What did I see first? Hm.m.m, I can't recall. I suppose I don't remember the early ones so much because it was work, and not so enjoyable. I do remember a Tosca (by Giaccomo Puccini) at the Met after I was first married, probably in 1976. The soprano wasn't vocally at the top of her career. But I remember the drama as she placed candles, first at Scarpia's left shoulder, then at his right shoulder, rose, turned to face the audience with a confessional stare, and then fled the stage. The enormous audience was silent, speechless, and then erupted with applause, and bravos, hoots, and flowers. A strange man a few seats from us, waved his beret and shouted, "She's the only Tosca, she's the only Tosca." Those moments become unforgettable.

And I remember my first Peter Grimes. That's an opera by Benjamin Britten. The set was stark. The thing I remember most was a fishing boat in the the center of the stage.



That set was designed to communicate the existential loneliness of Grimes. More recently I saw a Grimes setting that was designed to emphasize a totally different aspect of the opera. The main feature of the set was a wall of buildings symbolizing the town and the barriers it had built in relation to Grimes, who could never gain access to the heart of the community.

My family used to watch Met Broadcasts on television. We would listen for the credits at the end to hear the regular reference to the man who handled the lighting for years, Gil Wechsler. I don't know what made us diehard Gil Wechsler fans, but we were. Excellence in the details of such things as lighting, is the kind of thing that takes a fine opera performance and turns it into a work of art.



So, that is a little bit of "Why Opera?" I could go on and on. But I will leave it at that for now, hoping, a little bit, that you will give it another try. (I think I'd recommend Puccini---Tosca, La Boheme, or Turandot.)

In the comments section I will add some links to good examples of some of the other things I like about opera.

BRD

Simon and Garfunkel III: Anytime I Walk

Dear Barack Obama,

"So anytime I walk with Lou and... that's all."

When I was young, gasoline cost $.27. We got into motor cars and toured. We thought that a super highway was four lanes wide (Wow!) and really was "Super!" The turnpike was made of concrete and when you drove along it, the lullabye of the tires went ka-thunk, ka-thunk.
Now, it seems that gasoline prices are so high, that anytime I want to go somewhere, with Lou or with anyone, I think, I should walk, that's all. But I don't need to go anywhere, because I have the internet. And, it takes me everywhere, with not so much as a ka-thunk. . . just the gentle click of the keys. See?

The click of the keys to go somewhere is my point, not the price of gas. For the internet is our super highway. And it is faster, wider, longer, and more critical than the Dwight D. Eisenhower National System of Interstate and Defense Highways. When I was younger, and this sweet young girl was helping me learn how to use a computer, she said, "Look, Mrs. D., it's like a system of highways, and the url is the address you are headed for." She was a nice young girl with red hair. She told me she didn't want to have children. But finally she did. And isn't she happy now! I told her, but she didn't believe me. But she told me about computers, and I am so happy.

Today, the internet is as important as highways, do you see? So that is why you are going to have to make the way the country handles the internet one of the things to add to the list of things you have to change. Even Vint Cerf says so, and he helped Al Gore make the internet, they say.

I don't know so much about it, and even Vint seems to be a little unsure of what this change should be.TechCrunch first reported that Vint Cerf, Google's internet evangelist made the radical suggestion that the internet should be nationalized. Then it seems he backed off from that a little, saying that the government should be involved in encouraging internet competition, more like blocking certain monopolistic actions.

Anyhow, you need to look into this, because highways are important, and keeping them running right has always been something the government does. There isn't any doubt, in my mind that our newest system of transportation needs to run smoothly, and without too many ka-thunk ka-thunks.

BRD

Jujitsu for Christ

Dear Jack Butler,

Rothrock Café at the Lawson McGhee Library in Knoxville was a poor excuse for a place to sit. It didn’t even have proper vending machines. So I for one was ecstatic when the Friends of the Library decided to put the space to better use. Now, I invent excuses each day to escape my dungeon of an office and drop by the café-turned-used-book store to grab up the latest offcast by some donnish library friend.

So far I’ve snagged a few good ones, Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls, a nice volume of The Ya-Ya Sisterhood to send to one of my best friends of all time, Camus’ The Stranger, and even a copy of Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God. But today, I smiled broadly when, on the Religious Books shelf I saw your book, slanted and gleaming between, Gigi, a bio about Billy Graham’s daughter, Gigi Graham Tchividjian (Say it three times fast!), and a pock-marked copy of something by Harold Kushner about overcoming disappointments.

It was Jujitsu for Christ. Though it, no doubt, has 200,000 leafs to its credit, this ’86 Penguin paperback was waxed and polished and in near mint condition, with the license plate, ISBN 0 14 01.0374 0.

At any rate, I, as a person born in January with snow boots on, was drawn to the cover of this particular model of Jujitsu that boasted a review from the revered New York Times that promised,

“Anyone who does not like this novel is probably a Brie-chewing Yankee sapsucker who wouldn’t know a lynch mob from a hootenanny.”

But Jack, I love Brie! And hootenanny? By the way another NY Times review, not featured on the cover has said:

"JUJITSU FOR CHRIST, by Jack Butler. This first novel is named after a fictitious studio opened in 1961 by a white martial arts instructor to teach physical and spiritual discipline to blacks in Jackson, Miss. In 1986, Martin Kirby said here that the book is 'an antiracist satire, served up with a lot of sex and some Swiftian scatology.'"

What does Swiftian scatology mean, really?

But, I do have to say, that your book adds to my understanding of the Southern landscape of a time when I was growing up in the Northern landscape and saw certain action only on newsreels, not believing, quite, that what I saw, was happening. I guess everyone back then was off kilter. The times, they, were a changing, and no one likes that.

Well, at any rate, you told me you were working on a new novel, set in other parts of the globe. I'll look forward to going there when it's ready for visitors.

Write!

Betsy

Tom and Joes

Dear George Batrus,

"Two eggs over easy, with bacon and home fries," Dad said. And you delivered, probably for fifty years. Fifty years of eggs is a lot of eggs. Plus, if you broke an egg, you served that one free along with a new perfect one, for you knew my father's passion for the yolk and albumin of a chicken. Hear tell, your cooking was just right, heavy on the portions and served with humor that was always in good taste.

And the ambiance! I love the picture on your website of the Altoona, PA, political machine perched at your counter. Vaul Rouzer, police chief. I like saying that name and imagining him. "All right, you dirty rats, it's time to face the music." But. . . in real life, if he was related to Johnny Rouzer from Fairview Elementary school, who now lives with his wife, mother-in-law, and cats, up off the road to Gallitzen, he was probably a pretty tame dude. Johnny was always nice and if, due to roundness, didn't set records at playground "4 square," he was a major player when it came time for "Spelling Bee."

But enough about the Rouzers.

I didn't personally sit, very often, on the spinning stools in front of the counter at Tom and Joes. It would have been wrong for me to invade that territory. It was, kind of, a private lair for my father who demanded and continues to demand little in this world. Just a few eggs and the peace to eat each bite, dipping white toast with butter in the succulent yellow slop on the plate. But I'm sure it was more than the eggs and the portions that drew him to your place and stools.

Each town has one. These are not the ones that are written about in the fashionable slick glossies. But the patrons are loyal and the community is hubafied by them.


My dad spent many a breakfast or lunch hour at Tom and Joes.
I'm sure he will continue to show up every Tuesday morning for the

SPECIAL SPECIAL
Two Eggs, Bacon, Homefries, and Toast......$4.85
(Ham or Sausage instead of Bacon...No Charge)

(Over easy on the eggs and try to break one.) But he will miss you, George Batrus, and the spice your presence added to his life.

BRD

Street Art on Steroids

Dear Cadh8,

Thanks for the recommendation regarding this amazing bit of street art, described as:
an ambiguous animation painted on public walls. Made in Buenos Aires and in Baden (Fantoche--International Film Festival).


MUTO a wall-painted animation by BLU from blu on Vimeo.

Wow.

BRD

Letters to Obama II—Honestly and Without Regret

Dear Barack Obama,

"I would give honestly and without regret, one hundred dollars for that picture."
—Simon and Garfunkel 101.

I was leafing through old pictures the other day. From World War II. That wasn't the war to end all wars. We knew better by then. But, a few years ago, we got the idea that we ought to give war a go once more. Maybe this time, we could use war to “get ‘er done.”

I did a little anti-war protesting, before Congress took it's vote, but in the end, off the troops went. I remember saying to a friend of mine, another old peacenik, “I hope they are right, because I hate to demonstrate against a war, when our troops are risking their lives.” My Congressman, Jimmy Duncan, voted against going to war in Iraq. He's a Republican. I wrote a letter to him and told him I thought he was a wise American.

The picture I was looking for the other day was captured at Anzio.

I found was this one, taken from inside a tent. You can see the flap of the tent. Perhaps this photo was an accident. It is grusome, but it tells the truth about war.

Does it matter, when you see a pile that is bodies? Does it matter if they are Americans or Germans, French or Iraqi, Japanese or Afghan? I don’t think it does. Not 64 years later, it doesn’t matter. They aren’t Americans, they are a tragic memory. And today what matters is trying for peace and trying for a different picture, a different memory.

I would give, honestly, and without regret, one hundred dollars for that picture.

BRD

Street Art

Dear Banksy,

I don't know what has taken me so long to write again. I've been wanting to show you these works of street art ever since I got back from Budapest, but, you know, one thing and another.

At any rate, on the way to the opera one night after parking on a little off-street near Andrássy utsa, we stumbled upon this art work. I was extremely pleased.

This one is a little terrifying, but very interesting I think. I love the brow. I'm glad he isn't looking at me.


And this one was situated near a trash bin. Is that thought bubble Spanish, and is that a dog or a pig?

But my favorite piece was found not on the streets of Europe but Knoxville, and, for that matter, in front the building where I work, day in, day out. "Outside your own back door," so to speak.


She is lovely, isn't she? She has all the glamor of Greta Garbo and the reserve. Beautiful. I was told that this piece was done by a student at the University of Tennessee, but I won't tell.

BRD

Letters to Obama

Dear Obama,

I love your blog idea. I just set up my new blog at

http://my.barackobama.com

How cool is that!

Letters to Obama from an Old Woman

Watch out, I may tell you a thing or two!

Obama for President!

BRD

Book Burnings

Dear Reich Minister, Joseph Goebbels,

It has been 75 years hasn't it? Did you really think that you would stop the spread of ideas by burning books? Some people will always continue to think, you see. Some people will be undaunted and brave. You will run up against the Dietrich Bonhoeffers and Elisabeth von Thaddens of the world and be undone in the end. (Not to mention the Churchills and Roosevelts.)

But, perhaps you did succeed in slowing things down. Shame. What was it you were trying to do? Remove that which is "un-German" and immoral?



Your words at the bonfire at Opernplatz in Berlin are interesting ones, actually.

My fellow students . . . The triumph of the German revolution has cleared a path for the German way; and the future German man will not just be a man of books, but also a man of character and it is to this end we want to educate you. To have at an early age the courage to peer directly into the pitiless eyes of life. To repudiate the fear of death in order to gain again the respect for death. That is the mission of the young and therefore you do well at this late hour to entrust to the flames the intellectual garbage of the past. It is a strong, great and symbolic undertaking, an undertaking, which shall prove to all the world that the intellectual basis of the November Republic is here overturned; but that from its ruins will arise victorious the lord of a new spirit.

Some of your words could be attached to almost any heroic human endeavor of note, except for the part about entrusting "to the flames the intellectual garbage of the past." I was reading Hemingway the other day, The Old Man and the Sea. I haven't read it since high school. But it is an old person's book. I love the way the old man repudiates the fear of death in order to gain again the respect for death. But he gains again the respect for life too. Did you forget that? But then you didn't read Hemingway. You had your "little list", didn't you? (I wonder why you didn't ban Gilbert and Sullivan?) Banned Authors do have a way of biting you in the end, with the teeth of time and truth.

I got thinking about this subject after I got an email from a book seller, not Amazon, but AbeBooks. Their little newsletter spoke of your infamous event, now 75 years out and falling from memory. They provide online lists too. But from their lists, we buy books and they do create flames, yes, indeed, but they inflame our minds and set us afire with ideas. From John Dos Passos to Hemingway and Sigrid Undset, from Karl Marx to Friedrich Engels, from Lion Feuchtwanger to Marc Chagall and Paul Klee, from Thomas Mann to and Helen Keller we kindle and burn and are grateful.

You once said, perhaps shortly before you killed your family and committed suicide, "If the day should ever come when the nazis must go, if some day we are compelled to leave the scene of history, we will slam the door so hard that the universe will shake and mankind will stand back in stupification." But you have not shaken the universe. You, in fact, left the door ajar, for us to look back and see the error of your ways and your inability to look at life at all, only death, and with that knowledge and that which we gain in the study of great books, move forward enlightened.






Seventy-five years later, we look at you and pity.

BRD

Nett's Country Store and Deli Revisited

Dear Willie Nelson,

I was at Nett's the other day and saw a poster advertising your upcoming concert in Leiper's Fork.
Annette told me, and I should have listened, that 4,000 of the 5,000 seats (in the grass) had already been sold in just a couple of days. If I wanted to go to the concert, I should have turned over my $35 that night. Fie. According to the media that has swarmed around this event, I am now too late, for each sod-seat up at Aubrey Preston's farm is claimed.

But, hey, I don't go to Nett's for ticket information. That night, I had gone for their grilled chicken-topped salad, as had my daughter and a burger for her husband. It was Tuesday and the menu was tame, but we did catch up on the news. As Mrs. Rachel Lynde would say, "There is so much going on in Avonlea." That is how it is at the crossroads of Santa Fe, just a little north of Columbia, TN. The door post of Nett's was plastered with the pictures of the community's high school seniors. Debonair boys and beautiful girls are hanging about the porch in proxy while in reality they are off to the prom and finishing their finals.

But I'm sure they will be at Nett's for Thursday's Karaoke night. Handwritten signs on the wall next to the cooler and beside the cash register assure us that even if we can't carry a tune in a bucket, we are welcome to come and just have a good time.

So Willie, while you are in the region, just 22.39 miles up the road, via Natchez Trace Parkway, at Leiper's Creek Farm, you really need to plan a stop at Nett's Country Store and Deli. And make sure you meet Annette. She won't be offputting, but may give you some tips on how to make that concert of yours just a wee bit better.

Don't miss the chicken salad.

Betsy

P.S. Rooster Fries and Frogs Legs on Friday and Saturday nights.

Robert Rauschenberg: A Farewell

Dear Robert Rauschenberg,

I first saw your work at the Philadelphia Museum of Art and though I guess it wasn't the most comfortable of work, it was, for me, impressive and it expanded my thinking about art and such.

I saw this piece, "Bed," on the New York Times site today. It is just right.


On the Times site it was described this way. “For his high school graduation present, Mr. Rauschenberg wanted a ready-made shirt, his first. A decade or so later he made history with his own assemblages of scraps and ready-mades: sculptures and music boxes made of packing crates, rocks and rope; and paintings like 'Yoicks' sewn from fabric strips.”

My daughter, who is a quilter would understand this all very well.

We will miss your art and interpretation.

BRD