Polyester Never Wrinkles

Sometimes I see you

straight as you ever were,

teased and sprayed Seventies high. 

King James in one arm,

purse padlocked to the other. 

You say my birth name in a voice

this side of reluctance; 

ask if I remember to pray,

keeping in mind I might die

before I wake. 

Disappointment plowed

a furrow in your Midwest brow

that ran between us like a dry iron.

I was a run in your Sunday hose,

but polyester never wrinkles.

tk/April 2015



R.A.D. delivers with the perfect touch of humor...

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group

My DNA results...accidentally on purpose...

Last week the results from my mtDNA (maternal line) test arrived. My maternal Great-Great Grandmother was said to have been full-blood Cherokee. Like most Native American roots, it's hard to document on paper. Family Tree DNA already had my sample, so all I had to do was order an upgrade.

After eight weeks of anticipation, the results finally came in, not only confirming my Native American heritage from my mother's line, but also an unexpected percent of Ukrainian!  My main maternal links in order of percentage are: English, Irish, and Native American.

The Ukrainian connection explains a lot...my love of winter, melancholy, poetry, Russian icons, vodka...and maybe even why I recently bought a vintage student accordion, which I am slowly learning how to play. I find this all very fascinating.



* I snapped this pic accidentally on purpose

Jules

I dreamed

he was my father;

that I came

from hard water

tucked in his timeline

between New York

and Hollywood,

a summer

of root crops

and soy beans,

wild oats sown

in a Hoosier farm girl.

I craved a king,

some kind of Ramses

from heaven,

to strut clean,

make good the role.

Maybe I understood

the Mongol,

the far-off Tartar,

as not so magnificent

a number as seven.

tk/January 2012

Listen to R.A.D. Stainforth read this poem:

Visit his excellent, eclectic blog Black Dogs.

Join The Mag creative writing group.

Image:  Lee Friedlander

You push the button, we do the rest...

My paternal grandfather with camera circa 1940
click to embiggen

It's tradition at Willow Manor to hop in the old green Land Rover and head to the Franklin County Fair Grounds the Friday after Thanksgiving for the season opening of the Scott Antique Show.  Hundreds of vendors set up their booths once a month, from November through March. They happen to have a show in Atlanta, as well, for those of you who live in that southern neck of the woods.  I love to pull my red vinyl two-wheel cart along behind me, in search of buried treasure. 

I picked up a sweet little Brownie Flash Six-20, a 1940 variation of the quintessential American camera for $2.00.  The first Brownie was introduced by Eastman Kodak in February 1900, as a very basic cardboard box camera with a simple meniscus lens that took 2 1/4 inch square pictures on 117 roll film. The Brownie introduced the concept of the snapshot, intended as a camera that anyone cold afford, leading to the popular slogan, "You push the button, we do the rest."  The camera was named after the popular cartoons created by Palmer Cox.  

the number of dead people is increasing

Isn’t it so weird how the number of dead people is increasing even though the earth stays the same size, so that one day there isn’t going to be room to bury anyone anymore? For my ninth birthday last year, Grandma gave me a subscription to National Geographic, which she calls “the National Geographic”. She also gave me a white blazer, because I only wear white clothes, and it’s too big to wear so it will last me a long time. She also gave me Grandpa’s camera, which I loved for two reasons. I asked why he didn’t take it with him when he left her. 

my paternal great-grandfather, Glenn Hanna
with his portable bellows camera, circa 1910

She said, “Maybe he wanted you to have it.” 

I said, “But I was negative-thirty years old.” 

She said, “Still.” 


Anyway, the fascinating thing was that I read in National Geographic that there are more people alive now than have died in all of human history. In other words, if everyone wanted to play Hamlet at once, they couldn’t, because there aren’t enough skulls. 

― Jonathan Safran Foer

Speaking of dead people, photography runs rampant in my DNA. All my paternal grandfathers were photographers, starting with Joseph Lorenzo Dow Hanna in the 1850s, when photography was a new fangled art. Friday, on my routine Goodwill stop, I spotted this lovely old Kodak accordion camera, a smaller version of the one my great-grandfather Glenn Hanna used, back in 1910. It stirred that crazy photographic gene and I had to bring it home with me. All the grandpas nodded in approval.

image:  Kodak folding accordion camera, my latest Gee-Dub find

thoughts

with my firstborn, 1980, Kansas City

A mother's love for her child 

is like nothing else in the world.

It knows no law, no pity, 

it dates all things 

and crushes down remorselessly 

all that stands in its path. 

Agatha Christie, The Last Seance

easter thoughts

Auntie Dee and Snowball circa 1949
Burlington, Indiana

I'm not sure what the theme of my homily today ought to be. 

Do I want to speak of the miracle 

of our Lord's divine transformation? 

Not really, no. 

I don't want to talk about his divinity.

I'd rather talk about his humanity. 

I mean, you know, how he lived his life, 

here on earth, his kindness, his tolerance. 

Listen, here's what I think. 

I think we can't go around measuring our goodness 

by what we don't do, by what we deny ourselves, 

what we resist, and who we exclude. 

I think we've got to measure goodness 

by what we embrace, what we create 

and who we include.

 Père Henri, Chocolat

                                            

                            
Happy Easter, my friends.

This is a Sepia Saturday post.

i was a swashbuckler

Isn't it amazing how a tune can evoke a specific event in time? Woody Allen includes the best music in his films. Last weekend, I watched Scoop, and a piece of movie music carried me straight back to my childhood. My uncles, actually more like brothers in age, and I used to sword fight to Aram Khachaturian's Sabre Dance. We would play the piece from an LP record on a turntable, volume cranked to the max.

When the music ended, we moved the needle back and played it over until we were completely clashed out. Don't worry, we didn't use actual swords. Curtain rods were the next best thing, thrilling crash of metal on metal, imaginary sparks flying, catching the room on fire. I miss my Joan of Arc days, swashbuckling with the best of them. I should take fencing lessons.

By the way, the Khachaturian is deliciously quirky music. I think I will have it played at my funeral.

our Ben-Hur production still, 1959

We were an incredibly theatrical household. The saber dances are tucked safely away in my mind's eye, but I wish I had a tangible photo. I do have a shot of one of our Ben-Hur-esque dramatic productions. This wasn't just for fun; we were dead serious players. Speaking of serious, I was rather a precocious child. Here I am below, busy with some very serious writing, maybe an epic screenplay or some poetry. Nothing has changed.

This is a Sepia Saturday post.

butt in the hall of fame

All families have them, don't they? Quirky little words and phrases started by the children, that stuck for the duration. This summer, for instance, we at the manor have been calling cucumbers "cute-cumbers" ever since Jo, from A Nana's Journey, mentioned that's what her grandson calls them. Some of these words have become so commonplace, we don't even notice how strange they might sound to outsiders.

One of our particular family words is "flidge-a-later". When my daughter had her pre-kindergarten interview, one of the questions asked was, "What is the big box in the kitchen that is used to keep food cold?" The school principal later told us he did all he could to keep a straight face, when she looked him square in the eye, and said, "You mean the flidge-a-later?"

Here at the manor, if you happen to do something either outstandingly stupid or mean, not just regular every-day-kind-of-stupid, but something of the brilliantly stupid variety, you are ceremoniously bestowed the prestigious title "Butt in the Hall of Fame". This endearing practice started when the two older kids misunderstood the lyrics of the Munchkin song "Follow the Yellow Brick Road", from The Wizard of Oz, that go something like...

You will be a bust, be a bust, be a bust,

in the Hall of Fame!

At ages three and five, they had no idea what a bust was. It certainly sounded like "butt" to them. Okay, please tell me we're not the only family who has fondly and so willingly adopted silly words into their vocabulary. I would love to know some of yours.

stache or not

Apparently the mustache is back in vogue. My two sons, ages 23 and 30 have recently grown one. Their great-great-great grandfather, Palestine, would approve. I've always thought they were quite attractive on the right man, in a Clark Gable kind of way. The topic of the mustache has been thrown around a lot this summer at the manor, such as which styles to avoid (the Hitler--he does look quite nice without his trademark) and how long to let them grow before trimming. The longest recorded moustache belongs to Bajansinh Juwansinh Gurjar of Ahmedabad, India. It had not been cut for 22 years and was 12 feet, 6 inches long in 2004. Stinky.

Like the clean shaved Hitler, there are those who would not be recognized without their trademark 'staches. Did you know that after his death, the image of Frank Zappa's mushache was copyrighted by the Zappa Family Trust? Funny, Groucho Marz and Charlie Chaplin, both famous for their mustaches, sported artificial ones.

I certainly hope the Frida Kahlo mustache does not become the new look for women. I like to keep my facial hair, not that I have a lot, mind you, completely in check.

The word "mustache" derives from 16th century French moustache, which in turn is derived from the Italian mostaccio (14th century), from Medieval Latin mustacium (8th century), Medieval Greek moustakion (9th century), which ultimately originates as a diminutive of Hellenistic Greek mustax, probably derived from Hellenistic Greek mullon "lip". However, the Hindi word "moochh" for a moustache also bears a close resemblance.



Mustaches of the Nineteenth Century, a recent quirky Blogger "Blog of Note" caught my eye. It's a collection of vintage photos of mustachioed men and delightful commentary accompanying. There has also much much discussion over at Reggie Darling's blog about a certain mug in a beautiful set of French china he recently purchased. Originally, he thought the odd cup, with a semi-circular ledge inside was an invalid cup. Actually, it turned out to be a mustache cup, which were designed in the 1860s by British potter Harvey Adams, to keep the mustache dry, while drinking tea.

My great-great grandfather, Palestine Hanna, who wore a grand mustache, drank from a mustache cup to keep his dry. My grandfather told me of a funny concoction Palestine made, as a cure for headaches.

my great-great grandfather
Palestine Hanna,
sporting a long walrus style mustache

Cure, 1919

Palestine called it

coffee soup, a concoction

made to cure his head.

Grandpa watched him

toast the bread,

rip it up in jagged shreds,

drop them one by one

in a willow bowl,

pour on darkest java-brew

and eat it with a pewter

spoon, since it stopped

the lip of his mustache cup. 

Tess Kincaid, 2010










photos: Hitler, styles and cups from Google images

charming gardeners

Let us be grateful to people

who make us happy,

they are the charming gardeners

who make our souls blossom.

Marcel Proust

If I had a single flower for every time I think about you,

I could walk forever in my garden. ~Claudia Ghandi

My little gardeners and me, November 4, 1986

4 May 1929 - 13 March 2010

WT's sweet mother stepped through

an open door tonight, into eternity.

She was much loved

and will be dearly missed.

.

.

Goin' home, goin' home,

I am goin' home,

Quiet light, some still day,

I am goin' home.

.

It ain't far, Jes' close by,

Through an open door,

Work all done, care laid by,

Goin' t' fear no more.

.

Mother's there, 'spectin' me,

Father's waitin' too,

Lots o' folks gathered there,

All the friends I knew.

.

Nothin's lost, all is gain,

No more fret nor pain,

No more stumblin' on the way,

No more sweat n' strain.

.

Mornin' star lights the way,

Restless dream all done,

Shadows gone, break of day,

Real life has begun.

.

There's no break, there's no end,

Just a livin' on,

Wide awake with a smile,

Goin' on an' on.

.

Goin' home, goin' home,

I am goin' home.

Here am I, all alone,

I am goin' home.

.

I am goin' home.

.

.

.

William Arms Fisher

.

.

icicles, skillets, and magpies

It's pretty darn cold in my neck of the woods. The foot plus of snow has frozen into a layer of solid white rock. The digital time and temperature sign on our little local bank read 12 degrees this morning. I was up with the chickens, but I didn't see a single chicken on the road at 4:45. Too cold.

So, what do I do when I'm snowed in at the manor? Cook and eat! Kary, at My Farmhouse Kitchen, posted about making lasagna in her cast iron skillet. Well, I just happen to have a big beautiful vintage iron skillet with a lovely patina, given to me by my dear Aunt Janet maybe 20 years ago, or so. It belonged to her maternal grandmother, Myrtle Watts Yost (1886-1940) of Howard County, Indiana. It's faithfully served our family over 100 years; everything from farm buttermilk fried chicken to wintry Sunday night lasagna. My trusty iron skillet is one piece of kitchenware I can't live without. Even though I'm not blood related to Grandma Yost, I'm sure she is happy her skillet is lovingly put to good use at the manor.

By the way, this lasagna, baked in the iron skillet was by far the best I've ever made. Got an iron skillet? Give it a try.

And I might add that I am thrilled with the reception of my new creative writing blog Magpie Tales! Pop on over and check it out. Our first little piece of writing is due Tuesday, February 16. Lots of brand new writers have already signed up, and I am looking forward with great anticipation to some good reading! Thanks everybody!

As Mr. Junk Thief so aptly put it, "the Magpie is in the Willow"!

Sorbie Castle

My DNA tingling, I couldn't let this week's Theme Thursday subject
"castle" pass, without mentioning Sorbie Castle, my ancestral home.

Although I've never visited, I feel a strong kinship with this place and

it's at the very top of my bucket list. Located one mile east of the

village of Sorbie in Wigtownshire, southwestern Scotland, Sorbie

Castle, or Tower, is a late 16th Century L-plan tower house which

was built for the Hannay family and is now held by the Clan Hanna

Society.

.

The castle was most likely built by Alexander A'Hanna of Sorbie, who

succeeded his father, Patrick, after the latter's murder in 1543. At

the time the castle was built, the A'Hannas were at the height of

power, as Lords of the Manor. Their land stretched across the

Machars of Galloway, to such an extent, that it was known as

Machars Hannay. It certainly appears that the Hannay and Sorbie

family histories are intertwined. The big question is whether the

Sorbies were a family in their own right, with their own distinct

history, or an offshoot of the Hannay or some other family, who took

the name Sorbie to denote their place of origin.

.

In its day, Sorbie Castle was a structure of considerable importance
and may have actually been preceded by an earlier wooden castle,
since there is a nearby mound, which MacGibbon and Ross mention
in their work, The Castellated and Domestic Architecture of
Scotland. In 1993, the Archaeological Department of Glasgow
University carried out a dig on the mound, finding shards of pottery,
identified as coming from Bordeau around 1250. They also found
pieces of coins of Henry III of France and traces of the base of a
flying bridge, like appear in the Bayeux tapestry.

For more photos of Sorbie Castle, click on a tour by Scott Hanna.
[HERE] Although, I've not met Scott personally, he is a fellow Hanna

descendant.

Looking east from Sorbie Village.

Map showing Sorbie Village, including Sorbie Tower, center

This just in...

FireLight just pointed out how much Sorbie Castle looks like the
ruins of Moy Castle, pictured below, used in the filming of one of
my favorite movies of all time, Powell and Pressburger's 1945
film, I Know Where I'm Going. She is so right. I've gotta watch it
tonight. Now, where'd I put those woolly socks?

Moy Castle

steles

stele: also ste·la (stē'lə) pl. steles also ste·lae (-lē) An upright stone marker or slab with an inscribed or sculptured surface, used as a monument or as a
commemorative tablet in the face of a building.


Every year, I like to take at least one lovely autumnal walk through a cemetery. I enjoy the history, as well as all the various forms of funerary art. There is something very compelling, full of human truths, that draws me to these places of solace and beauty.

Tombstones were relatively simple, like the one of my fifth great grandfather, below, who was a captain in the American Revolution, until Queen Victoria, who after the death of her beloved Albert, in1861, went on a veritable mourning frenzy and led the way in making memorialization fashionable. Cemeteries were not only a pleasant respite from the dirty and noisy cities; they also became large scale public art galleries.

The words carved on Captain Robert "Robin" Hanna's stone are these:

He was a brave defender of his country's rights

and lived and died an honest man.

On one of my last visits to my dear grandfather, who passed away two years ago, at the ripe old age of 93, he took me out to some old rural Indiana cemeteries to locate the stones of our ancestors. It was a beautiful October afternoon and I don't know who enjoyed the day more, he or I.

This month, on my walk through the Oak Grove Cemetery and Arboretum in Delaware, Ohio, this stone, "Pompey King, died Apr. 8, 1844, aged 100 years", caught my eye. I was curious what information I might find on Pompey, so on my return home, I promptly did a bit of research. I found him listed on the Official

Roster of the Sons of the American Revolution Buried in Ohio. He was married September 23, 1815 to Sally Stonemia in Licking County, Ohio. I wonder what he would think about me blogging about him, some 165 years after his death? I wish I knew the origin of his unique name. What was his secret to longevity?

(for ore info o Pompey King,see addendem at the end of this post)

The image on the stone below is full of symbolism. A winged Death, complete with sickle, much like the one pictured in my header, is accompanied by an angel of grief (sorrow), holding an olive branch (peace), and a broken column (early death).

Listed below are other intriguing symbols often depicted in tombstone art. Ivy or a lamp would be beautifully symbolic. I don't know about you, but I don't think I'd like a gourd or skeleton on my stone. Hmm. Maybe a lovely willow tree would be more appropriate?

Anchor - Steadfast hope
Angel of grief - Sorrow
Arch - Rejoined with partner in Heaven
Birds - The soul
Book - Faith, wisdom
Cherub - Divine wisdom or justice
Column - Noble life
Broken column - Early death
Conch shell - Wisdom
Cross, Anchor and Bible - Trials, victory and reward
Crown - Reward and glory
Dolphin - Salvation, bearer of souls to Heaven
Dove - Purity, love and Holy Spirit
Evergreen - Eternal life
Garland - Victory over death
Gourds - Deliverance from grief
Hands - A relation or partnership
Heart - Devotion
Horseshoe - Protection against evil
Hourglass - Time and its swift flight
Ivy - Faithfulness, memory, and undying friendship
Lamb - Innocence
Lamp - Immortality
Laurel - Victory, fame
Lily - Purity and resurrection
Lion - Strength, resurrection
Mermaid - Dualism of Christ
Oak - Strength
Olive branch - Forgiveness, and peace
Palms - Martyrdom, or victory over death
Peacock - Eternal life
Pillow - Deathbed, eternal sleep
Poppy - Eternal sleep
Rooster - Awakening, courage and vigilance
Shell - Birth and resurrection
Star of David - God
Skeleton - Life's brevity
Snake in a circle - Eternal life
Swallow - Motherhood
Broken sword - Life cut short
Crossed swords - Life lost in battle
Torch - Eternal life if upturned, death if extinguished
Tree trunk - Beauty of life
Triangle - Truth, equality and the trinity
Shattered urn - Old age, mourning if draped
Weeping willow - Mourning, grief

This just in...After Roy mentioned in his comment that he thought Pompey King might have been a slave, since they were often named classical names as such, I did a bit more research, and found that Pompey

King was indeed an African American, former slave and pioneer! Serving in the American Revolution was mostly likely his ticket to freedom. He was also listed a member of the First Presbyterian Church. First buried in the Old Burial Ground, his body was later moved to the Oak Grove Cemetery, in Delaware, Ohio. For more Ohio historical info from the Ohio Digital Resource Commons at Ohio Wesleyan University, visit [HERE].

Isn't it curious, that Pompey King and my Capt. Hanna were born the same year and both served our country in the revolution. I wonder if they possibly could have known each other?

Thanks, Roy. This aspect of the blogging community is one of the things I like best. ~x

days of heaven

I noticed this past weekend, as we drove by fields of corn and
soybeans, most had not yet been harvested. There were a few
freshly cut alfalfa fields and the contrasting tall golden corn was so
lovely. Even though I am a city girl, my roots are firmly planted in
the farmlands of the Midwest, and I enjoy basking in their simple
beauty.

The Netflix film, waiting in my mailbox on our return, was Terrence
Malick's Days of Heaven. Synchronicity came into play with my
thoughts of farmland and harvest. I was previously unaware of this
film's theme and had ordered it by suggestion of Netflix; you know,
the "if you liked this movie, you'll will like this one" kind of thing.

As it turned out, this was one of the most stunningly beautiful films
I've ever seen. It's a story about a young man (Richard Geer) who
flees Chicago in the early 1900s after an accidental murder in a steel
mill. He takes his girlfriend (Brooke Adams) and his younger sister
(Linda Manz, pictured above) to work harvesting wheat in Texas.
The photographic genius of cinematographer, Néstor Almendros, who
won an Oscar for his work, and the endearing narration of the story,
by the raspy voiced young Manz, makes for an extraordinary
experience. Doesn't she look like she could be the girl on the left, in
thrashing photo below?

I descend from five generations of Indiana farmers and my DNA was
particularly tingling as I watched this movie. My grandfather
(pictured below, on a thrasher) told me stories of he and his brother
working with teams of thrashers, like this one pictured above, in
Ervin Township, Howard County, Indiana. It was very much a
community affair; the men and the traction engine were rotated
through the farms until all the harvest was in, and the woman would
get together and cook generous hot meals for the workers.

The scene from the movie below, of the dispensing of a blessing on
the field of wheat, before the harvest begins, is especially touching.
Now is the perfect season for watching this gorgeous movie, and
almost time to get out the woolly socks, too. So, do yourself a favor,
and add this film to your queue. It was so heavenly, I'm watching it
again tonight.
.

top photo: Flax worker near Yeovil, First World War, by Horace Nicholls

At a family gathering over the weekend, my dear youngest uncle
surprised me by pulling this string of seven metal fish charms from
his pocket. They were given as Sunday School rewards for
attendance and scripture memorization in our little Indiana church
back in the 1950's. I have such fond memories of catching these fish
on my trusty pencil and string pole in the pond behind the green
vinyl rocker. His sweet gesture brought tears to my eyes.

They immediately conjured thoughts of the biblical story of the loaves
and the fishes, and the creative power they represent. The parable
isn't just about the physicality of feeding the multitude with material
food, but about spiritual advancement, as well.

Through the centuries, the symbol of the fish has come to represent
Christianity, but for me, these charms bring thoughts of love,
creativity, new ideas and the exciting possibility of increase. I
couldn't think of a more appropriate gift, since autumn is my season
of renewal.

A sister hen,
I snatched you
from playground bullies
and hard rain.

We touched tongues,
told lies,
shared gum
and tackled pain.

Fear that flashed
in your eyes,
when you swam
in water over your head,

has passed
now that you are grown
and the cold years
between us have melted

down, like dilly bars
dripped from
your chin.

Willow, 2009

Happy Birthday, Sis.

I love you.

Tatt, or not?

I saw a great series of celebrity photos and quotes in Vanity Fair by

Bulgari in support of "Save the Children". This one of the lovely Lena

Headey and her tattoo caught my eye. (I loved her in The Remains

of the Day, Onegin and Possession, by the way.) Now, don't get me

wrong, normally, I don't particularly care much for tattoos, but

Headey's was subtle, even elegant. Most tattoos, in my opinion, are

not in the elegant category, no matter on whose young, elegant skin

they happen to be etched. Take for instance Angelina Jolie's. I think

they are just plain ugly, especially when paired with exquisite

evening wear.

My kids went through a phase back in high school when they were

dying for tattoos. I wasn't so keen on the idea and made them wait,

thinking they would outgrow the obsession. But, both my daughter

and youngest son got tattoos their freshman year in college. My

daughter actually designed her own personal symbol, a very creative

thing to do, I must admit, and my son had a beautiful rendering of

our family crest tattooed on his upper arm. Well, what can I say?

As far as tattoos go, they both chose very tasteful ones. Thank God,

they didn't come home covered from head to toe with them. But,

fifteen years from now, I'm sure there will be a huge market for

tattoo removal, don't you think?

Theme Thursday - Stage

It is impossible for me to write about the subject of "stage" without bringing up the opera stage and my favorite opera singer, who also happens to be my daughter, by the way, the talented and lovely mezzo-soprano, Elspeth Kincaid.

Elspeth's most recent role was that of Siebel in Opera Tampa's production of Gounod's Faust this past April. If you're not familiar with this opera, the role of Siebel is a "pants role", a male character sung and acted by a female, usually a mezzo-soprano. I was completely amazed at the transformation. Not only does Elspeth have a rich, beautiful mezzo voice, but she has the uncanny ability to completely step into a role and become that character, whether it be a flighty girl, an old hag, or even a handsome young man.

Can you believe this? She really has a "Leonardo Dicaprio" thing going on here, don't you think? Amazing. I'll have to admit, the makeup artist did a marvelous job, too, with the wig and makeup

She had the good fortune to work with the renowned American opera conductor and composer, Maestro Anton Coppola, in this production of Faust. Most of you will recognize the talented family name. He is the uncle of film director Francis Ford Coppola, with family ties to Nicholas Cage and director Sophia Coppola.

The opera took place in the beautiful Tampa Bay performing Arts Center. Here's a view from the back of the stage during one of her rehearsals.

A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer,

it sings because it has a song.

Maya Angelou