FAKE KNEE AND ALL . . .

I'm no longer the walker that once I was, so I declined the invitation to walk in the Maple Leaf Parade in Carthage, MO, today. Instead, I offered to take pictures.


And probably walked an equal distance just getting into position to take pictures of the group, a total of five walkers.


First thing was finding the group's position in the parade line-up. I parked a few blocks east of the courthouse square, and finally found them on the west side of the courthouse square. Shivering in their jackets, their red tee-shirts hidden from view. Told them I would see them somewhere along the parade route.


Not surprised that I wasn't able to park within two blocks of the route. Had to walk uphill, consoled myself that it would be down hill coming back to the car. I had calculated that I wanted to be on the east side of the street, with the sun at my back. Didn't like the back ground at that intersection, so I moved a block to the north. I had been told that the crowd would be very evenly dispersed along most of the route, found that to be true. Stopped across from two lovely, stately old homes.


I knew their number, and tried to keep track, but very few parade units had their number in a visible spot. An older gentleman booted me out of my first chosen spot. I moved a few feet away to stake out another place. Sat down on the curb, partly to give my leg a rest and partly to make it more difficult to ask me to move.


The third parade unit was a mounted troup, followed by a vehicle with a small trailer accompanied by two walkers equipped with shovels and scoops. Yep, the horses did what horses do. Amusing, however, that the pooper-scooper vehicle was none other than the candidate for re-election as sheriff, who is currently involved in a very smelly argument, with accusations being tossed about every week.


My group finally arrived -- number 78. Took a few shots from the curb, stumbled to my feet, tried to follow them, but they were moving too fast. So I trudged back to my car and wondered if I could manage to intercept them again near the finish.


Parked this time within one block of the marching route, within two blocks of the finish. This time I remained on my feet. The parade having made a ninety-degree turn, I was now on the south of the street, the sun still nicely behind my back. Got better pictures this time.


Walked with the group another block or so (uphill). At the finish line I declared I must have completed the walk with them, because here I was at the end. Had a few problems with the camera, but the experience was good, and I seriously considered buying myself a camera later in the day.

In Search of Pirandello

I’m posting this here, because it doesn’t seem to fit into my other blog, http://www.kansasplains.blogspot.com/ , but it doesn’t really fit into a knitting blog, either.


In my teens, when I first timidly thought about wanting to be a writer, I encountered a reference to something called Six Characters In Search of an Author.


Somehow, I was encouraged. Somewhere out there were characters in search of an author. If only these characters would find me, I would be an author.


That didn’t happen right away. Through the years the phrase would rarely come to my attention again, and I would be intrigued, but I did not pursue it any further.


Until Chicago.


In the Chicago Tribune I learned that an acting company would be performing the play, Six Characters in Search of an Author, on a certain Sunday afternoon.


I found the venue, deserted, shabby, untidy. Why didn’t I turn back? Alone, I found the elevator. Got out on the designated floor. Had I not found a hand-lettered sign announcing the performance I surely would have abandoned the premises. I advanced to the rear of the floor to find a rough set of empty wooden bleachers which faced an empty stage. It was a perfect introduction to what was to follow.


Shortly, another confused individual came through the doorway from the elevators and took a seat on the bleachers, not too close to be uncomfortable, but near enough to occasionally engage in conversation.


“When does it start?” he asked.


“I have no idea.”


A couple of people walked onto the stage from the wings and began trying to bring some kind of order to an odd conglomeration of furniture on the stage.


Suddenly, from the left, appeared another man, who called to the people on the stage, in an apparent discussion of what they were trying to do. He carried an armload of garments; one might suppose he was bringing costumes.


Clearly, although the clock had reached the time when the play was supposed to begin, the actors were scarcely prepared.


Thus began Six Characters in Search of an Audience. Luigi Pirandello’s masterpiece.


And I’m still struggling to become a writer, still looking for characters who are looking for me.

Finished One, Started Another

I did the finishing work on a shawl (I love to knit, but hate the final sewing up that is sometimes required), and started a new work, which I am calling as a working title, "Son of a Pig-Thief."


Had about 500 words, and realized that I already had TWO flash-backs, each in a slightly different time frame ! Some critics advise that a writer should not use a flash-back until the sixth page -- or some magical number.


One thing I have done in advance is make a list of the characters, and given them all names (had to use the phone book and the atlas for that task). Also wrote a one-page description, not a synopsis, because it does not include the ending, but pretty well sets the scene. I'm ready to talk to Bill Murray about starring in the film version.

My 'Other Blog"

This is my 'other blog." Not getting much knitting done, too busy oscillating between home and Joplin. Recovery is slow. In the first days after the May 22 tornado, the view of rubble wherever one turned was overwhelming. Then people began moving the rubble into piles at the curbing, and that view of what had been most peope's most treasured possession, their homes, was equally distressing. Now, in late September, there are scattered signs of rebuilding, but mostly the ground is cleared, and the view is still disheartening -- one can see so far in all directions that an entire one-third of the city has been wiped clean.


My daughter tells me that the Empire Power Company were immediate and heroic in restoring power to the 'other' hospital, but it took three days to return to normal water pressure. In the meantime, volunteers trod the hallways with bucket brigades to maintain the bathrooms with minimum functionality. The ER and OR sent instruments to a sister hospital in Neosho to be sterilized. Three days ! ! !


The 'other hospital'? I guess that's the new name for Freeman. All the media talked about the destruction of St. John's, but seldom referred to Freeman by name.

Confession: I'm from Arkansas

That's not totally true. The truth is: I'm partly from Arkansas.


I put down my knitting long enough to read a new book about the Delta rice country around DeWitt. I've never been to DeWitt, but there were enough touchstones in the story for me to feel completely at home. Jo McDougall said it took her six years to write the book, with her husband's help, who corrected her on such vital issues as the make of tractor which was used on the farm.


Ever since my knee surgery three years ago, I've had an irregular sleep pattern, often wide-wake in the middle of the night. With Daddy's Money: A Memoir of Farm and Family I read late into the night, finally dropping the book on my chest and sleeping straight through until morning. You might catch Jo around at book signings, or get it from the University of Arkansas Press.

ROLLER SKATE KEY

This morning a friend asked several of us if we remembered roller skate keys.


Oh, gosh, do I remember. Next time I see her, I'll have to ask what she remembers about roller skates.


My roller skate key, at the age of eight, was my key to the door of independence. At first it was up and down the sidewalk, and then around the entire block, and then . . . I often got at least a dozen blocks from home, along streets shaded with huge overhead trees, blocks of commercial and retails businesses, or boulevards of larger homes and churches, a world in which I was free to roam as long as I was home in time for supper.


Some years ago a popular singer came out with a song about, "I've got a brand-new pair of roller skates . . .," and I was obsessively delighted at the image. I totally ignored the naughty line about "have you got a key?" as I recalled my childhood days of carefree exploration, whizzing along the sidewalks of mid-town Kansas City.

Lots of Ways to Lose Your Mind

There are plenty of ways to lose your mind. Some people lose their minds in a tornado -- that's where mine went.


At first, I didn't realize it was gone. All of us -- probably about 40 -- emerged from the devastated IHOP on Rangeline with scarcely a scratch. Of course, our cars were demolished and we had no transportation, and nothing could be seen around us in the twilight except a leveled landscape. Leaning up against a remaining bit of wall at IHOP was a sign (from across the street) proclaiming the building to be Arby's!


The first few hours were spent in making phone calls to other family members and friends, and once it had been determined that all were relatively safe and unharmed, falling exhausted into bed (not realizing that there were thousands who did not have beds to sleep in that night).


The next days I was like a zombie, absorbing new, terrifying, heartbreaking details of what had happened. My daughter, a neurosurgeon, came home from the hospital some 36 hours later. A friend, desperately looking for a nephew, called her, and I remember hearing her say that if she had seen the young man as a tornado-injured patient, she would have recognized him. Will Norton's body was found several days later in a pond.


I began to suspect that my mind had gone when my sister-in-law remarked that people who had been entirely outside the tornado's path were still suffering post-tornado trauma, jumping at sudden noises, wandering around the house wondering what they had intended to do.


That's me. Wandering around aimlessly, sit down at the computer, and can hardly remember which button to push. Unable to follow a chain of thought with anything more than two links.


I have some hope that my mind is beginning to return -- otherwise I wouldn't be able to blog.