Even Mockingbirds Grew Quiet Today

I enjoyed teaching the novel To Kill a Mockingbird as much as any work of American literature. Reading the novel as an adult provided new insight. The depth of the characters and the cultural landscape provided a look into both good and evil.

Reading the novel without discussion, without opportunity to interact with other readers, limits its power. My students probably laughed up their sleeves at how excited I always became when a moment of Eureka! erupted in the classroom. Those moments enriched my joy of teaching and gave students something to think about other than the weekend sporting events.

One of my favorite activities was to have students draw a town map of Maycomb gradually adding the main characters’ homes and particular landmarks such as the school and Boo’s tree. Characterizing Atticus, Jem, Scout, Calpurnia, Boo Radley and all their neighbors brought amazement to many students, puzzling them as they pondered life for people in Maycomb. When they learned the meaning of the title, I sent up a silent prayer and hoped this book would affect them in a positive way, meaning a change in the way they thought or perceived their world. Most of the students managed to get through the novel before I brought in the movie. "Yes, it's in Black and White- there's nothing wrong with the TV set!"

Good literature always produces a change of some kind – most of the time a change in the reader.

I did not read Go Set a Watchman. Her special novel, To Kill a Mockingbird, was enough to cement Harper Lee as a favorite author.

Walking through History at the Daffodil Festival

Ouachita County Historical Society Quarterly arrived today and promised a Walk Through Time. The Winter 2015 issue is filled with historic information so that the volume may be kept as a resource for all who love history, especially Camden, Arkansas, History.

Teresa Harris, one of the contributors to OCHS and a friend with whom I have reconnected through historical research, compiled the Walk Through. While she admits in her notes that she chose to document and compile for her own interest, the project grew and can now be used as historians learn more about the "evolving of Camden" as a city.

Perhaps there is no way to be 100% accurate when trying to compile information from multiple sources, especially as the sources are often dated well after the date of the event in question.

With much appreciation, I salute Teresa for this exhaustive and informative Walk.

Upcoming for Camden is the annual Daffodil Festival, March 11 - 13, 2016. Among the multiple events during the weekend is the Cemetery Walk in Historic Oakland Cemetery. The event is a crowd pleaser with re-enactors who "portray the connecting stories of early inhabitants and settlers." Tours run continuously every fifteen minutes, 9AM - 4 PM, Fri & Sat.

 My family members buried there include Julia Sonora Ritchie Greening and family, Thomas Bullock Gordon II is buried beside his cousins George Garnett Ritchie and Charles Andrew Ritchie,the graves located near the CHS Gazebo. All three boys died as infants. The story of "Little Tommy" is a chapter in the family history saga THE HOUSE ON HARRISON STREET which will be launched during the Camden Daffodil Festival. (See BLOG link to the right - The House on Harrison Street)

Love Offerings

I overheard a man and woman talking at the grocery store the other day. The man said, "My wife got mad at me the last time I gave her flowers. She said it was a total waste of money. She told me that they just droop and die."
The woman agreed and checked the price of bouquets proudly beautifying the corner where they were displayed. The woman must have been feeling practical and economical, I'd imagine, for her to readily agree with this misguided husband.
I felt sad for their respective mates.

God gave us the flowers of the field and set our world aglow with their wild patterns, lovely fragrances, and striking beauty. Flowers do more than color our world and our lives, though. They dance and smile and remain for their season,offering us an opportunity to give another a special message.
Just as spoken words of affection disappear on a song, the sentiment they conveyed, the memory of those lovely words linger, not just for today, but perhaps for always. A gift of flowers does the same.

The blush of first love fades, but oh, how delightful is its memory. On dull days, when the sun's rays are hidden, remembrances of fond embraces, the exchange of trinkets, notes, even sweet, sweet kisses given and received transport us to joyful delights.

The day that a man thinks he no longer needs to send a card, offer a rose, or sneak in a chocolate surprise is a sad day, indeed.

Love blooms where it is planted and when tended with a special touch, its essence can last a lifetime.

Good-Looking Men

Good-Looking Men
Those eyes.

Scarlett: Cathleen, who's that?

Cathleen Calvert: Who?

Scarlett: That man looking at us and smiling. 

Cathleen Calvert: My dear, don't you know? That's Rhett Butler. He's from Charleston. He has the most terrible reputation.

Scarlett: He looks as if... as if he knows what I look like without my shimmy.

 I wonder what Jane McBride Campbell thought when she saw a young version of John Calhoun Ritchie? That dark wavy hair. That deep, penetrating stare. The sharp, sophisticated attire.

It's part of the story we'll never know. But it never hurts to imagine what her thoughts would have been.

My Aunt Betty told me this, "You better watch him. The good-looking ones are always trouble."

Mama Said, "No!"

It'll happen to them like it happened to me.
I cried when I saw Mother's "stuff" arrive in Memphis, packed inside not one, but TWO moving vans.
We had gone through her house, packed all kinds of stuff, the memory of which is still overwhelming.
She held an estate sale. A friend rescued pictures she'd forgotten were in the attic. That's another story.
Still, two moving vans arrived in Memphis and we rented for Mother a three bedroom ground floor apartment with garage. Two of the bedrooms contained stuff. So did the garage.
Should I live so long, others will face this same dilemma.
What to do with "mother's stuff."

At one time, in a galaxy far, far away, my dear friends and I were antique hunters. We rose early, grabbed sustenance and fortification at McDonald's, and arrived at estate sales with the early birds, ready to grab that worm.
We researched the Commercial-Appeal ads and on this one occasion had circled an ad promising "We've been to Mother's attic." Oooh-la-la. That should be good. It was to be our first stop for the day.
Cindy and I had joked about what my mother would do if she saw her prized possessions available for sale. My grandmother had told me she'd "haunt me" if Uncle George's chairs or the tea cart ended up in a yard sale. What would she do if I tried to sell Banmama's celery dish or cake plate?

As we drove to the advertised address, we were giddy that we must be some of the first to arrive.
Then, as we circled to park next to the house, we saw the sign.
"Sale Cancelled."
Oh, how we fell over laughing. Mama had 'risen up' and sent the troops to cancel the sale.
"Mama said "Not only no, but hell-NO!"

The Fall of the Communion Cloth Caretaker

               Reasons for her stroll down the street from her house two doors up are inconsequential, but answer the question of why Mildred would go to Margaret's front door. 

              She said that, after the heavy rain, she thought the soggy grass and standing puddles might soil her shoes and splatter her stockings if she took the familiar route across back yards to the back door. Therefore, she walked down her driveway, down the street, and walked on the concrete sidewalk that led to three steps and a screen door at her daughter’s front porch.

               The screen door wasn’t locked, so she pulled it toward herself and promptly lost her balance. From the top step, she backed up to navigate the door’s swing, caught her heel on the outside of the step, and ker-plunk. She tumbled right into the boxwood shrubs lining the front porch.  They’d grown from tiny plants and now provided a slight cushion.

               The screen door slammed. Margaret heard something and while she was expecting her mother’s visit, Mildred always came to the back door. The front porch door slamming shut was most likely a result of the wind. Then she heard what sounded like a loud cat mewing, “You-hoo!” but then, the cat called her name, “Margaret!” She hurried to the front porch and looked toward the door. She saw nothing.

               That was when she heard, “Margaret, down here.” The position her mother was in made it impossible for her to free herself from the clutches of the shrubs. Margaret swallowed an aghast laugh and turned it into, “Oh, Mother!” and hurried forward to extract Mildred from the boxwood branches. Stockings torn, arms and legs scratched, nerves shattered, Mildred could barely help in her own rescue.

               Once out of the shrubbery and leaning on the arms and shoulder of Margaret, the duo made their way to the kitchen table where Margaret gingerly placed her mother into a chair. She got a cold cloth for her head, wiped her arms, and patted the scratches on her legs.  Margaret then refreshed the cold cloth, one of the family cure-alls, and left it for her mother to place on her forehead as she sat whimpering and moaning.

Mildred G. Horne, 85th birthday, March 26, 1975

               “Mother, I have to finish getting dressed. I’m going to pour you a glass of wine to settle your nerves.”

               “Oh, no, I don’t drink wine.”

               “You drink Mogen-David, so you can drink this.”

               “The doctor told me to drink just a thimble-full once a day for my heart.”

               “Well, this doctor is telling you to drink this for your nerves.  Just sip on it and I’ll be right back.”

               Margaret left a tumbler of red wine on the table in front of her mother and waited for her to put the glass to her lips, which she did all the while wrinkling up her nose and pursing her lips to suggest how terrible the stuff tasted.  “Just sip on it, Mother.  It’ll calm you down.”

              
The communion-cloth-caretaker of the Camden First Methodist Church was an obedient soul. Margaret swore she was gone less than ten minutes and when she returned, Mildred had finished the tumbler of wine and admitted that she might take "just a thimble-full" more…for her nerves.