Ah, even I now have the new Blogger interface. Much easier to look at.

So, I spent $4 on the copy of Ulysses that I have read about half-way through. To make heads or tails of it, I need this book for $29.95. Bet it's not in our tiny public library.

... 46, 48, 50! 2, 4, 6, 8 ...

MSNBC reports that the Vatican has now put its art collection on-line here.

I know very little about John Scalzi's writing, but in this post he talks about his young career as a writer in a no-nonsense, unromantic and optimistic way. If there's a wannabe in your acquaintance, it would do him or her no harm to read it.

Francesa Watson has e-mailed to say that she's been in touch with Fabio's people, but unfortunately he won't be back in-country until Fall. It certainly is good to know that SOMEONE in the Axis takes me seriously.

I think it's been about five weeks since this house was cleaned properly, and we're moving from the need for a housekeeper to a need for disaster relief assistance. It's reached the point that I'd be embarrassed to call someone in without cleaning up at least some first, and that's just not in the cards right now. The vacuum is my enemy.

I can't shake this feeling that I should call my mother and tell her how I'm doing.

I've been extremely disappointed in the quality of drug prescribed as pain medication after this surgery. Oh, the drug is fine for decreasing pain, but its only side effect is sleepiness. I have been taking only one of a possible two, but I'm afraid that two will lead only to the side effect described on the label: POSSIBLE DIZZINESS.

I had a bout of dizziness the night I returned from surgery, which resulted in Lyman manhandling me back into the wheeled office chair, and rolling me across the living room and down the hall to the bedroom, where there were only a couple of unsupported steps until I could ease myself into bed. Nothing broke, far as I can tell, but it's not an experience either of us wants to repeat.

Instead of pleasantly spacing out on drugs, I have opened my second-hand copy of James Joyce's Ulysses from Half-Price Books in Dallas. My brother picked this copy out for me because it was prefaced by the court ruling that judged the book was not obscene and should not be banned from the U.S. market. He also said it was the best English translation he could find. (Silly snot. Surely he could have found a better one.) This is my first reading, and I'm doing it cold, without any supporting materials. Which is another reason I am taking frequent naps.

Today I'm going to make myself useful by rolling change, which is falling out of the dishes provided for it on the dresser. One of our sons took a pile of change to one of those machines located in grocery stores and lost $10 on $100. I asked, "Michael, when have you become so well off that it's not worth an hour of your time to make $10?" Neither of these boys grasps that 100 pennies still make a dollar, and dollars aren't all that easy to come by, regardless of how prosperous you are. They'll learn the day they're hungry and 7 cents short of the cost of a Sonic burger. In earlier days, I've turned out every pocket in the house and searched every crevice in the furniture for a nickel. I hope those days are past, but if they aren't, I'm ready.

For more shopping news, visit the Wed., June 18 entry at Compleat Redneck and read Cletus' hot tip for shopping for accessories. Remember "Compleat Redneck -- not just barbecue anymore."

This month has been so packed that some of my story lines have gotten lost. I just know that Chuck over at redneckin is dying to find out if I found a suitable bedspread for the condo.

Yes, gardener-boy, I did, but not without a lot of effort. (Go see his pictures from the garden. He grows pretty flowers.)

Let's preface this by saying that I do not like to shop. I don't revel in spending money, and I never buy something just to say I bought something after visiting a store. I start out with a specific need in mind, and shop until that need is fulfilled, which can turn into a wildly frustrating experience.

There were several criteria the bedspread had to meet:

1) it had to be a throw style bedspread

2) it had to coordinate with, and not overwhelm the numbered print in the bedroom where it would be used

3) it had to coordinate with the colors in the rest of the condo

4) it had to be reasonably priced (think replacement in a few years)

5) it had to have a "beachy" theme

6) it had to be king-sized

7) it had to machine-washable

You'd think that in condoland such a task might require no more than a run to the nearest Wal-mart, but you would be wrong. We started at Old Time Pottery. No throw bedspreads, many bed-in-a-bag values, most without a suitable theme or color. Then it was on to the outlet mall in Foley, where WestPoint Stevens disappointed with another large collection of bed-in-a-bags and a small collection of unsuitable throw styles. They did carry about six very pretty inappropriate comforter sets that I would see over and over again until I finished shopping. We spotted a place called "Tropical Linens" that was closed when we went by, but would later be revealed to have custom-made bedspreads in the $400 to $600 range -- something I wouldn't put in my own house, much less a rental unit.

Having exhausted the stores in Alabama, we drove over to Pensacola and started at University Mall, where there is a Sears, McCrae's, Penny's and Beall's outlet store. I came within a size of what I could use at Penny's. The only throw styles at the other stores were 100% light cotton cottage-style throws (think Martha Stewart) that would soak up every stain and particle of dirt on the beach. Linens & Things, Bed, Bath & Beyond and Dillard's were no better. That exhausted Pensacola.

It was too late to shop more. We drove back to the condo and had a drink (and I mean an adult beverage, and I mean more than one).

The next day we were going to have to use some imagination. One place we didn't visit was a Sleep Shop in Pensacola. Hey, they sell mattresses, maybe they sell bedspreads, too. So we pulled out the Yellow Pages and looked for stores that sold bedding. The first place I called was Henry's Furniture, which offers Sealy bedding. They had three king-sized throw style bedspreads in stock. We drove over to the store on Canal Road, maybe five miles from the condo, and were introduced to Charlotte -- a very good-looking beach grandma -- who showed us the spreads. Voila! There it was. A spread with a graphic pattern in colors soft enough to coordinate with the rest of the furnishings. She even allowed us to take it home and try it on approval. It worked!

We got the side benefit of seeing the rest of the shop, which has many things appropriate for our unit. Best of all, we found Charlotte, a budget-minded, practical, tasteful woman who can help us in the future. I think next year we'll replace the other bedspread.

Blogger won't let me edit the post below. What's with that?

I'd like to tell the spammers sending me sexually-enticing e-mails to cut it out. The whole idea makes me want to scream with pain. Though I'd be grateful if Fabio would bring me a cup of coffee, please.

That wasn't so bad, if I forgive them for bringing me in at 6:30 am and not operating until about 1:30. There's soreness at the site of the operation, but I am otherwise fine. Now where is that coffee?

LATER: This is all a little of nothing. Go to Nate MCCord's site and wish his father's new wife well.

Here's a great site I found at Gawker -- a contest to decorate Martha Stewart's new cell. (Sorry, this contest is closed, but the entries are fun to see.) On the left side of the screen, check out Martha's New Digs 2 under "related contests". That contest is open for decorating the cell lavatory facilities.

I caught a glimpse of the aftermath of this accident on my way to a test yesterday. What a hideous mess.

OK, I'm still waiting for a phone call from the surgeon's office. What's the deal?

LATER: Aha, there they are. The nurse will call this afternoon to schedule.

Tomorrow, hospital, 6:30 am. Pre-admission today.

And test results from yesterday's ultrasound scan: no evidence at all of an aortic aneurysm. ("Eeeks!" you say. Well, that's what I said, too.)

In-Laws to Love

Since I first appeared under the weather, my in-laws (that would be Girl and Big Daddy -- this is Tennessee Williams country, after all) have repeatedly said that they would help in any way we need. At about 8 pm last night they dropped by after having spent the day with Lyman's sister's family over in Natchez. I told my mother-in-law that if she wanted to help she could send over some of her potato soup when she had time. (At 83 she's still a good cook.) At 10:30 last night she called Lyman to tell him the soup was ready and to bring a large pot.

Isn't that a gift?

Kids, this ain't gettin' any more fun. Yesterday found me at the surgeon's office, planning an inguinal-femoral hernia repair. (Yes, that was the source of all that pain.) It's a day procedure, scheduled for Tuesday. The doctor will literally patch my abdominal wall with a piece of mesh that living tissue will integrate with to form a stronger container.

It's not all bad. The surgeon says they'll give me Demerol, which, from prior experience, leads me to say, "Bring on the logging saws!"

Baby, that is some good stuff.

LATER: I'll be fine, if I don't smother in dust-bunnies first.

Now isn't that just like a self-described liberal? Michael Bowen of A Minority of One asks of his own accord to join the Axis of Weevil, then expects to be flamed by other members for his political views.

Mr. Bowen, you'll get more flack knocking sweet tea around here than you'll get for the link to Michael Moore on your site. Believe me, I know.

Reading of Cletus starting a new story over at Compleat Redneck reminds me of a story from Mother's funeral.

For the convenience of all concerned, we decided to have the post-funeral gathering at my mother's house. My sister, Patricia, and I raced to the grocery in the morning to buy a few more things to serve, gathered what we had bought the night before, and charged around 635 to arrive at Mother's house at about 9:30 am. After we'd stored the things we brought, we had a little time to rest before going to the funeral home.

We heard a knock at the door, which was my nephew catching up with his mother. Then we heard another, unexpected knock at the door, and opened it to find Aunt Glenda, my father's sister, 80 years old and looking fine indeed. With her was Aunt Leona, 88, and looking pretty as always. (She has my grandmother's complexion, which defies sun, age and gravity.) They had gotten themselves lost in Dallas trying to find the funeral home and dropped by the house in hope that someone would be there.

We sat them down and offered them drinks. Glenda said she'd be happy to have a margarita. Can't blame her there, after an hour lost on Dallas roads. I told her no, it was only 10 am, and that she'd have to wait until after the service. (This is all teasing. Glenda probably has a margarita once a month, if that.)

We visited a little while, and it was time to go. At about that time, Glenda started on a story about her dog. Aunt Leona grasped her cane, got up from her chair and headed for the door. I followed to escort her down the drive. As we went out the door, Leona said, "She's started on one of her long stories. We'd better get going or we'll miss the funeral." We walked on down to the car. As I was opening the car door Leona said, "Glenda is losing her memory. She gets started on one of these stories and then I have to finish it for her. Who's going to finish my stories for me?" Then she laughed.

Bryan, my nephew, offered to drive and look after the ladies for the rest of the day. Did a handsome job of it, too.

Natchez writer Greg Iles, six times on the New York Times Bestseller List, has finally hit the big time. He's joined the rock band Rock Bottom Remainders to play with the likes of Stephen King, Amy Tan, Scott Turow and Dave Barry. A local story is here.

Fame continues to narrowly evade Vidalia. Let's not forget that just down the road to the west, Ferriday is the birthplace of cousins Mickey Gilley, Jimmy Swaggart and Jerry Lee Lewis.

This might be the sexiest, most romantic thing I've read in blogs, from Stuart Buck:

Yesterday, my wife heard a radio broadcast of the middle movement of Ravel's Piano Concerto in G, except with a twist: a classical guitarist was playing the melody line. (It's one of the most beautiful works of the 20th century; click here to hear a clip of Martha Argerich playing it.) Janis: you'll have to click on the post to get the reference, that one I can't figure out how to do.

So last night, after the kids were in bed, my wife and I sat down to try our hand at it -- her on the piano and me on the classical guitar. She had played the entire concerto in college, and still had the music (arranged for two pianos). The first few pages went fairly well -- the melody actually fit nicely on the guitar. After that, it became much more difficult (i.e., lots of notes), beyond my ability to arrange for the guitar while sight-reading.

But it was lovely indeed -- a shared moment of beauty at the end of a long day.

We never did anything like that when I was in Dallas. Not that I can play piano or guitar.

If I were a purveyor of fine wines, whiskies, or even coffees, I'd snatch this scene up for a picture of the good life.

I'm not exactly a screaming ninny when it comes to pain, but after two days this weekend struggling with all sorts of embroiled viscera, I visited the lovely Dr. Palmer this morning. I'm on a regimen of antibiotics for the week, battling a kidney infection. Could be a physical manifestation of stuffing emotions, I suppose.

At any rate, I'm a little fuzzy, and such concern as I can muster regards the condition of a house that has been left for weeks to a man of many fine qualities other than cleanliness and a small parrot of generally good manners who eats like a flock of macaws.

I'll be better in a day or two.

LATER: I have distracted myself by reading this book that I borrowed from my brother. The 23rd Psalm is utterly flat in anything other than the King James version.

I have been inordinately tired this weekend, so writing has been confined to answering two requests -- one from Florida and one from Iowa -- for a recipe for sweet tea. Now why they would be writing me for a recipe was a curiosity until I remembered that I had offered a recipe to little Fiona's father in comments over at World Wide Rant several months ago. A Google search turned me up about 15 entries in.

Little do these trusting correspondents know, but I make only a lightly sweetened tea, and that only in deference to my father-in-law, who likes a little tea with his sugar. My mother-in-law prefers unsweetened as do I. Lyman likes it as I make it, and Big Daddy has to make do with adding extra sugar. Running a household is a round of compromises. Perhaps I should follow Alton Brown's advice and keep a beaker of simple syrup in the refrigerator. It dissolves better in cold tea.

And I think I might like a glass or two of tea today.

LATER: My correspondent in Florida wrote to tell me her tea turned out wonderfully, then countered with a family-favorite recipe for lemon ice-cream. What would I do without the Internet? I mean, besides get my housework done?

Thanks to all of you who have sent condolences. I received a sweet e-mail from Francesca Watson which I acknowledged without knowing that her father is ill. Miss Francesca, I wish the best for your father and your family.

Mother died about 10 minutes after I boarded a plane in Baton Rouge. My sister and sister-in-law who were present tell me that she departed peacefully and quietly, slipping away while they were talking in the room. My sister tells me she had checked on her only a couple of minutes before. She did not die alone, which was a fear for us while she lived in her house. This year had been a particular struggle for Mother, whose world was becoming smaller and smaller as her breathing capacity diminished until she was finally bedridden. Cliched as it is, her sufferings are over.

I had no issues with my mother, so my grief is mainly sadness that she is gone. We had no long-standing scores to settle, no bitterness between us, no regrets. She was a hard-working homemaker whom God will happily invite into his Heaven because she made the best chocolate cream and coconut cream pies (and apricot fried pies, BJB) in all creation.

Ecclesiastes is the scripture for me right now. And the angels better watch their weight.

Hey, y'all. I'm home.

In Dallas. Mother passed away yesterday afternoon. Will be back in touch next week.

Let's see, we have Lucy's tree and her travel cage, three kinds of food, a first-aid kit, cups for the tree, her personal fan heater for drying after baths, her special buddy toy she sleeps beside at night, a couple of toys for the tree, newspapers, a skewer for fresh foods -- looks like Lucy is ready. I'm still packed from Dallas. Lyman will add a few things and we're out of here. Plus we had the radials rotated and balanced before the trip to Dallas. Y'all have a fine holiday.

Some kind soul with more recent experience in punctuating with quotation and half-quotation marks will leave me an easy-to-follow guide at my e-mail address while I'm gone. A lot went under the bridge between 1988 and 2003.

Here's an interesting side note to my trip to Dallas. We rented a car so Lyman would have wheels in Vidalia. Rental cost: $366. Miles driven: 53. Cost per mile: $6.90.

One night Lyman called and told me to bring the red Tahoe home. He had been to Wal-mart that evening and lost the rental car in the parking lot. "Do you have any idea of how many little silver cars there are in this area?," he asked.

Another busy day today, cleaning and packing for a trip to the Redneck Riviera. We were not careful in planning this trip, and will find ourselves among Memorial Day crowds. Drat! Who decided to schedule the holiday for May 26?

The project at hand is to find a king-sized bedspread suitable for the condo. Do you know how hard it is to find a proper bedspread as opposed to a comforter set? Nigh unto impossible these days, unless we choose a chenille, which is an option. Experienced advisors tell us that it is far better to use a print fabric, to conceal such stains and spots as can be expected when children are running around slathered with sunscreen and tanning lotions and carrying colored drinks. A bedspread, I'm told, is the better choice because it is easier and tidier for guests to put right.

We will also inventory the kitchen and replace any items that have been broken, lost or snitched. People do take the funniest things: steak knives are always missing, plastic containers of all kinds go missing, can openers, knife sharpeners, bedside clocks all go missing. Maybe we should buy some cheap novelty ashtrays so people can take a souvenir from the beach without inconveniencing the guests that follow. Sorry to say, some people just don't get this sharing thing.

In Dallas, I stumbled across a display of battery-operated clocks on sale ($2.78 apiece, with batteries!) and bought half a dozen. Maybe I should have bought more. "Stay at our condo. Get a free clock!"

I'm really too tired for this trip right now, but given the situation in Dallas it's best we go and get it over with as soon as possible. Not a very beachy attitude is it? Maybe it will improve when we arrive.

I don't plan on being near a computer during our stay, so this might be the last post until sometime next week. Y'all have a safe and happy Memorial Day. (And I am taking suggestions for bedspread shopping anywhere from Mobile to Pensacola. And I know about the outlet mall.)

LATER: Steam irons go missing. Who in hell wants an iron?

We will not be publishing the name of the rehabilitation center. My sister was reacting without getting her facts first. The doctor in attendance says Mother did not have pneumonia when she left the center. The attending doctor at the hospital she was transferred to says she did not have pneumonia. That does not excuse the rehabilitation center for not calling Patricia when things didn't happen as planned.

Mother is now a patient at a nursing home about four minutes from Patricia's home, and maybe eight minutes from her work, as opposed to Mother's house 25 miles across town. A 50-mile round-trip across Dallas is not the optimal way to end a working woman's day. The home is clean and friendly, with many kind and cheerful people to look after everyone.

Patricia decided, and I concur, to bring a hospice facility into Mother's case. The hospice nurse who first looked over her chart explained to us that at this stage of Mother's disease, pneumonia and other pulmonary illnesses cannot be eradicated. Her lungs are warm, dark and filled with fluid, and there are no drugs strong enough to rid her of illnesses.

Mother will eventually drown in her own lung fluids. The treatment now is to give her morphine derivatives and other anti-anxiety drugs to quell panic. She compared Mother's experience to being dropped into the deep end of a swimming pool and not being able to reach the surface.

When I left yesterday, Mother was quiet and lucid. It has been a roller coaster ride as they've tried to find the proper dosage of drugs. Medicine is still a hit or miss thing in her case. They're not helped by the fact that Mother has never been drunk more than once or twice (when I was a little girl she had some champagne with the neighbor next door and set the kitchen trash on fire when she cooked dinner that night) and never took so much as a tranquilizer to affect her mind. Mother has always dreaded being "drugged-up" and left in a nursing home to die.

So that's where Mother is.

I'll write more about Dallas later. I found that I've become quite the country mouse.

I'm home. Thanks for your prayers and good thoughts for my family. Whenever I come off 635 in Dallas alive, I'm sure God is watching over me.

Mother is stable, but not happy in her new environs. Patricia, my sister, is considerably calmer.

There is a lot to report from the Valley of the Shadow of Death, but it can wait until tomorrow. Y'all have a good night.

Coming soon to a theater near you is the name of the "rehabilitation center" that sent my mother off yesterday without doctoring her pneumonia. My sister called me yesterday afternoon in tears and anger.

This so-called rehab center released my mother to a nursing home yesterday. The drivers had to stop the conveyance twice because she couldn't breathe. The nursing home refused to accept her because her oxygen count was too low. She was taken to a local emergency room. The rehab center didn't bother to call Patricia at work. She didn't know what had happened until she called the nursing home to see if Mother was settled in. Apparently, they were intent on scaring Mother to death.

All is pending. Patricia is going to need some relief in a day or two.

I await her word.

Yes, I know, I'm spluttering. Better that than the language I want to use.

LATER: Mother has asked for me. I leave tomorrow. I HATE this drive.

Two pissed-off Davenport girls. Somebody is going to think, "This sucks".

She's pretty, and I'm smart and we can take 'em all.

Aha! We have activation in MS Reader! We have Mr. Simon's books! We have a stove that needs a good scrub, too. Dammit all.

So I was thinking about trolling the comments over at Nate McCord's site, when I ran across this story from the Drudge Report about a restaurant in China using underwear as dish cloths.

Eeeeks!! you say.

I have a dirty secret. Because Lyman's undies and t-shirts are white cotton, they go into the laundry with dish cloths and dish towels which are also white cotton. The whole load is soaked for hours in hot water, detergent and a more than healthy dose of bleach. The load comes from the dryer white and sanitary. I'm confident that no cross-contamination is occurring. (Gads, you should see some of the dish towels that come out of this kitchen.) I see no need to freak until they determine what laundry procedures the restaurant follows.

And, well, the Chinese and laundry ...

This post at Ken Layne's enticed me to buy Roger L. Simon's out-of-print books on the Internet.

The site where you buy offers several formats. I e-mailed Mr. Simon, who graciously responded quickly, about which would be the best format to choose. He replied that any would probably work, but the easiest might be Adobe Acrobat. We googled a bit about other formats, and finally decided on MS Reader.

We downloaded the program as per instructions. We have hit a snag. Before making a purchase the user must "activate" the program. Well and good. The instructions are simple and they flow right up to the point where activation should take place. The Microsoft activation server is down. It has been down since this time yesterday afternoon.

So who handles the server?

And where are my Roger L. Simon books?

Here's an interesting discovery: 179 front pages of newspapers from around the world. When you click on a front page, you can go to the website, if there is one available.

I called my mother at the rehabilitation center. Tomorrow she will be transferred to a nursing home for a little while. When she leaves there, she will return to her house, and then I will go to Dallas. She has COPD and is approaching the end stage.

She is 84, and has been lonely for my father for 14 years. Today she could barely breathe well enough to keep up a phone conversation.

We expect to be orphans by the end of this year. Maybe that's why I've been lightly depressed this year.

Long-time, powerful Louisiana Senator Russell B. Long has died at 84.

I shouldn't chide anyone for grammar, but there is an almost universal error on the Internet (not just the Blogosphere), and coming soon to a book near you, that is driving me starkers. That is the misspelling of the past tense of 'lead'. The proper spelling is 'led'.

"Currently, I lead a quiet life. When I was younger, I led a raucous one."

I don't think I have read one source in the past year or so that has spelled this word correctly.

Mechanical spell-checkers, I guess.

Everybody, head over to Fritz Schrank's for this post. And click on the picture.

I don't have much to add to the trailer discussion as I have never lived in one. Lyman did during law school. I have observed, however, that the double-wide would be a real convenience when splitting up community property during a divorce.

"How would you think about 300,000 fetish pictures?"

I don't rightly know, hon.

[delete]

No, I didn't do the fried pies yesterday. I like to cook and I am good at it, but I have my limits. Monday night Lyman and I cooked Shrimp Creole from Rima and Richard Collins' The New Orleans Cookbook. It's as good a recipe as we have in the house, and if you are willing to sell your favorite child or grandchild into slavery, you, too, can try it.

Here's the list of ingredients (no amounts -- too taxing): oil, flour, scallions, celery, onion, green pepper, garlic, parsley, tomatoes, tomato sauce, chives, red wine, bay leaves, whole allspice, cloves, salt, black pepper, cayenne, chili powder, mace, basil, thyme, lemon juice and water. And 2 pounds of peeled shrimp.

We used home canned tomatoes rather than tomatoes and tomato sauce, and Lyman made a stock from shrimp shells to use in place of water. This recipe calls for 1 & 3/4 cups of thinly sliced scallions, and let me tell you, my personal Hell is standing at the sink cleaning green onions thinner than my little finger. And it was delicious.

But last night? Hamburgers were too much trouble.

Billy Joe Bob, many thanks for that pretty red soil, but I really wish y'all would keep that and send some of the rain that's been falling. Our local farmers are beginning to worry.

By the way, I have assembled apricots, shortening, flour and a little advice from Miss B. Today just might be the day to try those fried pies.

I've added Michael Totten to the blogroll because he brings a different perspective to many issues, linking to unusual stories and references. He also has the cutest red-haired wife (but you can't see the photo because none of his archived photos are showing up).

All this talk of Bill Bennett is going to force me to set up a bourre game. The day we married, Lyman and I joined a group of friends for an evening of cards. I won $42 that day, though I don't think any person in the group lost more than $10.

I might even have to ask Miss Alec from across the street. She is 79, and doesn't get around so well anymore, but she has a reputation as a wicked card player.

Inconvenient call of nature

Because his bathroom was in flames, Theisen ducked behind a large oak tree in his back yard to relieve himself. Before he could finish, though, one of the police officers at the scene declared he was under arrest for lewd conduct.

"I tried to tell him, 'Sir, my bathroom is burning. It's on fire.' But he didn't seem to care. As soon as I zipped up, he put handcuffs on me," Theisen said.

(Link via Obscure Store)

Tim Blair dishes up some vitriol from readers of the Sydney Morning Herald. Here's a small sample:

"Bush is currently the greatest treat to world peace, he is a second IDI Amin, he over estimates his own self worth, I put him up with all the othe dictators of the world. The IQ of America can move from 1 to 2 if he is put in exile. I continue to deplore anything American, as they are one of the most backward countries in the world."

I think my feelings are hurt.

We heard the wailing of a bunch of sirens earlier this afternoon. "No," I thought. "Not another of those accidents down the levee road." The levee road is a snaky thing and drivers are apt to cut corners. In February, two 17-year-old girls driving north were killed when they had a collision with a pick-up driving south. The cars hit each other head-on in the middle of the two-lane road.

The sirens came closer and I thought, "No, please, not a fire."

None of that at all. The Vidalia High School Lady Vikings softball team was returning to town after winning its first ever state championship. The team bus was met at the edge of town by a full police escort (I mean every police and sheriff's car in town -- all seven or eight of 'em), and paraded throughout the neighborhoods, sirens blaring and horns blasting. You go, girls.

The boys are in the playoffs, too. I wonder if they can keep up?

I woke this morning to two Post-It tags on my monitor. One says that Cossie called and asked if I would like to do lunch with her today. Another says "MONEY FOR LUNCH" with an arrow pointing to a stack of twenties on the counter. $140. Maybe we should do lunch in New Orleans?

LATER: That was a temptation until I remembered that sugarmama was off to the New Orleans Jazzfest this weekend. Nix.

So we wound up at the bar of the new Comfort Suites hotel down by the riverside. We sat near windows where we could watch the barge traffic going up and down the Mississippi. At 85 degrees, it was too warm to sit on the patio outside, even closer to the riverbank. Excellent Bloody Mary, too. Not too alcoholic with plenty of spice.

Lunch for one = $12 for a drink and a turkey club, including tip.

Hey, if Possum is Larry Anderson's blogdaddy, and Possum is my blogdaddy, then we're blog siblings! I knew I liked that guy. Of course, being a sibling doesn't necessarily mean liking. But that's a long post I'll keep to myself.

By the way, I think I've finally figured out how Daddy comes out so wonderfully off-the-wall. Two words: sleep deprivation.

Billy Joe Bob of Compleat Redneck and I have had an e-mail correspondence going on for some time about fried pies. He says he remembers his grandmother drying fruit on feed sack bedsheets. I have no such memory. He wonders if he is dating himself by bringing it up. I suspect it's regional. My grands canned. I don't know that he has ever said where his grands came from, but mine lived most of their lives about 60 miles north of Dallas, TX, up around Gunter, Sherman and Van Alstyne.

I know that my mother's mother was born in 1900. That's a date that sticks with you. My daddy's mother died at 86 when I was in New York, which would be 1979-1983. I couldn't afford to go home for the funeral, and my parents couldn't afford to fly me. Miss Ida Gibson, her name was. Well, at the time of her death, her name was Mrs. Lee R. Davenport.

So, unless I am totally wrong about Billy Joe Bob, he's not entirely out of my generation -- though we could be at the long ends of one. My big brother is about 64. "Talking about my generation ..."

Chastised? Chastised? Oh, Dr. Taylor, you don't know chastised until I catch you setting your sweating tea glass on my antique desk. That was the quietest little nudge.

Go over to James Joyner's distinguished site and find the movies made in your birth year. For me, we have "Hud", "Peyton Place", and "The Three Faces of Eve". The influences ...

May 1? How did it come to be May 1? Last time I looked up, it was March 27. Gads, I'd better check my bills.

Steven Taylor is added to my blogroll because he is the proverbial gentleman and scholar, and he seems to like that kind of thing.

Lucy and I are on the outs today. It all started over at redneckin where Chuck has been cheering GF along with redecorating her kitchen. After making oh, so many useful suggestions, I looked at mine and said, "Yikes, this needs a good cleaning!"

Out comes the bucket, and the Mr. Clean and the scrubber sponge. This is a problem. Lucy is far nosier than a cat and likes to be in the middle of things. She is not allowed near cleaning solutions because they are not good for her respiratory system. I spent all afternoon yesterday scrubbing (and how, exactly, did THAT get over HERE) and Lucy spent it hollering because she was left out.

She has been cross with me all day. She tossed her boiled egg off the cage onto the floor and bit me when I put it back. Then threw it off again. Snot.

I never read Hillary Clinton's book "It Takes A Village". But it is an excellent title -- parents, grandparents, relatives, teachers, neighbors and friends all have essential roles in raising a child. It is a true statement.

So what idiot came up with the title "Living History" for her memoirs? That title evokes to me the last living Confederate widow, the last World War I veteran, the last living painter of the Cubist school of art. Isn't she supposed to be a working politician? Or is she ready to retire?

Miss Meryl is complaining about bugs in the south. Can you imagine?

I'll pass on this bit of wisdom from Miss Glenda, my beloved friend and graduate of Louisiana Tech's home economics program:

I leave the cobwebs up. They help catch the mosquitos and flies.

I will post more southern housekeeping tips from Miss Glenda as occasions arise. Go Class of '66!

Another small pleasure. Sunday night I delivered a graduation gift to the young woman across the street. Today, Tuesday, there is a hand-written, personally worded thank-you note in my mailbox. Good training, Mom!

Meryl Yourish has a long letter from Captain Steve. I like this part:

Daewoos are tiny Korean trucks we use here. They are too small to pass US safety standards so you won't see them at home, but they are cheap and relatively durable so the DoD uses them overseas. (That's right. They're too dangerous to sell to farmers and small business owners who need cheap transport, but we buy them for 19 year-olds to tear around in overseas.) They are so small that when I was in Korea it was a popular diversion for 3 or 4 men to walk around base picking up parked Daewoos and carrying them to hiding places. After a while so many man-hours were wasted by people searching for their cars that the Wing Commander had to forbid the sport.

Small pleasures. Kathleen's older girl, Kate, graduates from high school this year. I enclosed a check with a pretty Neiman-Marcus card (from I don't know how far in the past) and crossed the street to deliver it last night. These girls used to feed my cat when I went out of town. Both have grown into young women with striking Irish good looks. Kate plans to go to LSU and study forensic science. What a fascinating field to get into.

There is nothing like sitting with a bunch of good-natured southern girls in a lovely courtyard drinking champagne. Wasn't blue at all. More your pop-jazz songs of the past century.

LATER: By the way, Shirley, the lyrics you missed are:

I guess I'll never see the light
I get the blues most every night ...

I am going to dress this morning and join some ladies for brunch at The Guest House in Natchez. An old favorite of mine, Sylvia Johns, will be playing piano. One of our frequent guests at home, Shirley McClerkin, will be singing blues. It's all part of the Natchez Bluff Blues Fest.

It's early in a beautiful day to be listening to blues, but a mimosa or two might smooth out the mood.

Odd Todd has a funny new cartoon up touting his new book.

Interesting, Tata Possum. Ingrid Newkirk remembers The Cook, The Thief, His Wife, and Her Lover.

Ballpark figure for new swimming pool liner: $2200.00

Sorry, kids, it's time to play in the sprinkler.

The luxury I crave these days is cut flowers for the house. That patch of ground would be perfect for a garden.

Exercise? I can do yoga. Year round. (And work in the garden.)

Cooling down in the summer? Do you have any idea how warm the water is by mid-July down here?

LATER: And, I don't like the enviromental implications of running a 30,000 gallon swimming pool when it's used as seldom as we and others in the neighborhood use it. That wraps it up.

Not quite. It's not a pretty pool, either. Absolutely zero aesthetic value to the neighborhood.

EVEN LATER: $2200, you say, isn't so much money. It's a whole lot of money when you consider that we spent $3500 on this monstrosity 3 years ago. When it sprang a leak last year WE COULDN'T GET ANYONE TO COME FIX IT. That's why it needs a new liner. What about the boys, you ask? Won't they inherit this property? Don't they have a say? I say, if the boys want to go swimming it would be cheaper to fly them to Cancun. (Better yet, they can go jump in a lake.)

I am going to post this wonderfully clever little cartoon here just in case you are not a regular reader of Tim Blair. Too cool.

Silly dreams. Lucy shrieked me awake from a dream in which I woke one morning to find Ken Layne asleep in the guest bedroom. Apparently, he had come through town for some sort of media event -- a panel, a book-signing, it wasn't clear -- and slept over at our house. Which was all fine with me. Others of his crowd showed up and I counted heads and cooked for everyone.

I am a great fan of Ken Layne's work and he is welcome to stay here anytime. But he needs to be warned that there's not a bed in this house that would be comfortable for a 6'4" man, or woman, for that matter.

Later today I bought 36 white begonias and 12 white impatiens. Along with the 50 White Queen caladiums, I think the front yard is taken care of.

Now time to think about the back.

Dr. Frank needs to prance on over and perform at the Under-the-Hill Saloon in Natchez. It's a historic venue, quite near the place where Jim Bowie had a legendary knife fight. I'll pay double.

Did you watch television yesterday? Did you catch Laci Peterson's mother carrying on? Down south we call that "unseemly". We do not advertise our grief down here. Taking on as she did is restricted to the end of a long night when we are deep in our cups. Fie on MSNBC for televising such a spectacle.

One Maruyama string trimmer: $326.24

One riding lawnmower repair: $285.00

One diagnostic for a leaking swimming pool: $250.00

One spare J-Dam: Priceless

Rex brought the trimmer by. We will pay for it on Monday. He was off to Arkansas to follow the 1300 pounds of crawfish that his son trucked up early this morning.

Time to look in on Iranian Girl:

A different day, a good girl...
Today, I was totally another person...although it was Friday & was holiday I woke up soon in the morning & started studying all my lessons for hours, after dinner sleeper for an hours & after that again studied...I connected to Internet just for some minutes & tried to help my mother like a good girl, didn't watch TV or satellite & got prepared for the Sunday physic exam. And now I'm just gonna go to bed soon to be able to wake up early in the morning.....wow, I think I'm going too far & if things go on like this I should get worried about myself...I had never been such a good girl!!!

Good girl!

Oh, gaack! We're now proud owners of a Maruyama string trimmer. I like this line:

Maruyama true commercial grass trimmers are designed and built in the tradition of our industry recognized heavy-duty landscape line.

Believe me, it's pretty serious around here.

And they call this Good Friday.

Miss Lee Ann Morawski at Spinsters has a new job! Congratulations, Miss, and thank you for the incentive to get on with some much needed work.

Man, it's like way hard to maintain my Zen when there's a war on.

That was a cheap shot at Lyman and I'm going to take it back, because he hasn't lost a pair of undies under the bed but once in nearly ten years. It's probably not his fault that I didn't find them for two years, either. He is creating a little wall here, though.

Bless his heart, he was planting cucumber and squash plants in the garden yesterday when he tripped over a tomato stake and fell into a pile of them (stakes). He looks and feels like he ran into a gang of toughs in a dark parking lot.

He had the presence of mind to throw the row rake away when he fell, and so prevented any serious injury. But he does require a lot of sympathy.

Today I am going to feel energized. I am going to think good thoughts. I am going to apply myself vigorously and uncomplainingly to housecleaning. I am not going to question the identity of bits that I am going to clean from the walls around Lucy's cage. I am not going to fume when I find men's undies stacked at the foot of the bed. I am not going to wonder how two adults who are not greasemonkeys or field workers or miners can possibly create such a soiled environment. And thus will prove that cleanliness is not necessarily next to godliness, but that it is damned close to saintliness.

I forgot cheerfully. Yeah, that's it. Cheerfully.

Mr. Nieporent and I have had a little tiff over at Charles Austin's site about "terrorism". Mr. Nieporent thinks that the justice system in America is fine without refining crimes down to "hate crimes" or "terrorism".

In many ways, I agree with him. It's an overcomplication to designate "hate crimes". It goes too many ways.

"Terrorism" might be a tad different. You'll have to take my word on this, but when we went into Afghanistan I saw a short film on MSNBC, "Inside Afghanistan", in which a prisoner-of-war in one of the northern camps was asked about Osama Bin Laden. He was interpreted as saying, "Osama is a terrorist. He does terrorism. Like a doctor does medicine, Osama does terrorism." Yes, Mr. Nieporent, there are different classes of crime.

That's not right. How was your mama gonna holler "William Joseph" out the screen door when she called you to supper?

Here's a great little story by Jesse Walker about a walk with his fiancee:

TRUE TALES OF BALTIMORE: So last night R. and I are walking the series of blocks that separate our car from a party. We pass three elderly women, and R. decides to mess with them by suddenly saying, "I don't know if I feel right about having an affair."

There's a pause. Then one of the old ladies yells, "GO FOR IT!"

There are stories of the National Museum of Iraq being looted, like this one. Before everyone starts wringing their hands, experts need to examine what morsels are left and see if they are authentic. Note in this story:

The museum had been closed during much of the 1990's, and like many Iraqi institutions, its operations were cloaked in secrecy under Mr. Hussein.

Given the venality of the regime, and the tremendous value of antiquities on the black market, the museum might have contained nothing but exquisite fakes. Worth looking at.

LATER: The scam is, during these ten years you make exquisite fakes for the museum, and store the real things out of country. When war arrives, incite a mob to loot the museum, setting the whole world in a tizzy over lost relics, and forcing the US to start paying sums to recover the lost pieces, which you sell from your cache which has been safely stored away for years. I like it. Lovely way to get the last laugh.

Saddam just borrows the art from the people, and finances his lifestyle and such terrorist activities as he can afford with our dollars.

There she is!

Body on beach had two left thumbs

Police said Friday that the fact that a body that washed up on a Wilmette beach had two left thumbs could help them identify the man.

Well, I guess so.

Where is Shoshana?

Some smart organization with the footage will issue a 2 hour tape of "Donald Rumsfeld's Greatest Moments".

Where is Shoshana?

Via Brothers Judd comes this tale of horse-thieving during the looting in Baghdad. What a strange thought.

BAGHDAD, Iraq - It was enough to make a Texan president's heart swell: Hassan Atiya, an Iraqi on horseback, riding off into the chaos of wartime Baghdad with a vigorous wave and an exclamation — "I love you, America."

By way of Kathy Kinsley and Mommabear, to Command Post, to Defense Tech, to Noah Schachtman's article at Tech Central Station. Why are people in the field getting false positives on chemical tests?

Last night I was watching Fox News when embedded reporter Greg Kelley described how he and his team had left the presidential palace the night before to sleep in a clearing. Some members of the team put a tarp on the ground, but Kelley said no, he camped out on the hood of the Humvee.

Now, I don't mind sleeping on the floor, but I won't be sleeping outdoors in anything but a deluxe tent. I don't like bugs and I don't like snakes.

So what kinds of bugs are the soldiers living with in Iraq? Here's a story about an entomologist working with US forces in Kuwait. An excerpt:

Obenauer said malaria ---- spread by mosquitoes and parasites ---- and other nasty infections caused by "filth" flies, pose the biggest threats.

But there are other dangers, posed by other bugs, including:

Sand flies: Like the no-see-ums in the southern United States and jejenes of Mexico and Central America, sand flies in Iraq like to bite feet, ankles and wrists. The Iraqi twist on the common pest is that they carry deadly viruses called cutaneous and visceral leishemaniasis, which can cause fever, weight loss, an enlarged spleen and liver before death.

Ticks: Unlike the ticks Marines may have seen before, in places like Camp Lejeune, N.C., Iraq's blood-suckers can transmit a bacteria into their host that can cause a form of hemorrhagic fever. They are pretty cunning, too, Obenauer said. "They're long-legged and fast, and they feel the vibrations of animals or humans and move toward it," he said. "They're pretty bad ticks."

Spiders and scorpions: While they do not carry diseases, spiders and scorpions are high on the troops' list of concerns, Obenauer said. And there are many to be concerned about.

Sun spiders, also known as "camel spiders," are not true spiders but spiderlike bugs that grow to be about 8 inches in diameter and are sure to freak out any Marine sharing a foxhole with one. Obenauer said that while they are big and ugly and pack a mean bite, they are nonvenomous and nearly harmless. Janis: Here's another reference for these guys, which includes this charming quote: "The popular terms 'haarskeerders' and 'baardskeerders' (Afrikaans words for hair and beard cutters) originate from the strange behaviour of some of these animals where they cut hair from sleeping people or animals (dogs) at night. It appears that female solifugids find hair to be an ideal nest liner."

There are 19 species of scorpions in Iraq, five of which are "very dangerous," Obenauer said. Among the latter is the black scorpion, one of the deadliest in the world.

It's worth reading the rest of the story to find out how dreadful conditions have been in Iraq. It also explains those 50 gallon drums of pesticides.

LATER: Here's a military site with pictures of snakes and scorpions, dangers and treatments.

So, Iraqis grow tomatoes, too. I am too lazy to cite, but, of course, you have heard the reports of Iraqis living on little but tomatoes. Must say, if I were restricted to a food or two, tomatoes would be high on the list.

My question is, "Do middle-aged men in Iraq compete in growing tomatoes?"

Is there a state-mandated way of growing tomatoes, or do men sit around arguing about the best way? Do they argue about fertilizing? Spacing? Depth of planting? Watering? Picking suckers?

Do they brag? "My tomatoes are marble-sized." "Well, my tomatoes are golf-ball sized." "When did you put yours out?" "Oh, my garden was ready in February." "My tomatoes are beginning to turn." "Birds are getting all mine."

Or is it all different?

LATER: According to this story about tomato farmers in Al Zubayr, probably not.

Sorry, folks. I just experienced the best life has to offer. I was setting out the last two tomato plants in our rich Mississippi River soil when a tug on the river sounded its horn and cheers erupted from the ball park across the street.

Of course, there are already mosquitos. And Lucy is ticked because she couldn't participate. West Nile, you know.

Oh! Me? I'm going to help plant 45 tomato plants.

Bosh, Josh. John Kerry has a tin ear. That's from a registered independent.

LATER: I'm watching Joshua Marshall on Fox right now. He has a good television presence. Nice voice.

It seems things just don't change:

Last November, exactly one year after the fall of the Taleban, I stayed in the Kabul house once occupied by Osama bin Laden. Though hardly on the scale of Saddam’s palaces, by Afghan standards it was a stately home, the residence of the Saudi-born terrorist’s third wife. It was at once a surprise and a confirmation to discover that the ascetic, anti-Western terrorist had chosen French bidets for the green-tiled en-suite bathrooms. His luxury mansion outside Kandahar, with its door handles studded with semi-precious stones, would not have been out of place in Footballers’ Wives.

Caves? Riiiight...

From Smiley Anders in The Baton Rouge Advocate:

According to a recent survey, men say the first thing they notice about women is their eyes. And women say the first thing they notice about men is they're a bunch of liars.

Attacker held off with curling iron

That's as good a headline as I've seen lately. Here's the story from The Baton Rouge Advocate.

Tata Possum posted another excerpt from his turn-of-the-century writing guide today. It includes this excerpt:

Men of Action, Writers of Power.—Any atrophy of action in the writer is loss of power in the writing. The masculine literature of the world is the marrow of men great—in action as in writing: Moses, David, Paul, Cæsar, Æschylus, Michel Angelo, Cervantes, etc. Of more avail, also in literature, it the action any writing means than its literary finish. Homer, less literary than Virgil, is yet the greater influence. Milton, in form more measured than Shakespeare, is yet behind him in magnitude and power. Burns, who made no profession of literature, arouses more enthusiasm than Wordsworth, whose one business was poetry. Emerson is more literary, but less virile, than Carlyle, whose bias was all in favor of action.

Several years ago, to help my son Jason, I read a book or two of Milton for the second or third time. I have no time for Milton anymore. However you go about it, the man is a bore. On the other hand, Shakespeare is a charm.