POETRY FEST, PART II

"ANNABELL LEE"

James Abbott McNeil Whistler

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I must add another of my favorite childhood poems. Obviously, I was attracted to repetition and alliteration, and romantic death!

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"ANNABEL LEE"

Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.

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I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea;

But we loved with a love that was more than love-

I and my Annabel Lee;

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven

Coveted her and me.

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And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsman came

And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

In this kingdom by the sea.

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The angels, not half so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and me-

Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

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But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we-

Of many far wiser than we-

And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea,

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

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For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide,

I lie down by the side

Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,

In the sepulchre there by the sea,

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

MAY BOOKS

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"Snow Flower and the Secret Fan"
Lisa See

This book - which was my book club book this month - is about Lily and Snow Flower, Chinese women who become "laotongs" or "old sames", in the old Chinese tradition of pairing two women to become lifelong, extremely close friends. These emotional pairings were so important they were arranged by marriage brokers.

If you think being a woman is difficult sometimes, you should read "Snow Flower" to put things in perspective. It tells in vivid detail how women's feet were bound in excruciating fashion to create the tiny, desirable golden lilies. A member of our club searched the Internet for pictures of golden lilies, and the pictures were more gruesome than one could imagine.

A girl born in 19th Century China was considered to be very nearly worthless. Her only hope was in making a good marriage. After she was married, she moved into her husband's home, where she held the lowest position in the household, working slavishly for an ill-tempered mother in law. She might regain honor if she bore sons, but not worthless daughters.

Laotongs would engage in "nu shu," secret women's writing, sending each other letters written on the folds of silken fans, as well as small gifts like embroidered handkerchiefs, "thereby reaching out of their isolation to share their hopes, dreams and accomplishments.

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"Her Father's Daughter"
Gene Stratton Porter

I picked this book up at the antique mall last Saturday, having read Porter's "Girl of the Limberlost" and "Freckles." I enjoyed these books, as old fashioned and sentimental as they are today, because the heroes and heroines are always so plucky in the face of adversity and because Porter's descriptions of our natural world are so beautiful.

"Her Father's Daughter", published in 1921, features another plucky heroine - an intelligent, independent, forthright girl. I loved the descriptions of the edible plants the girl sketched and painted after trips to the deserts and canyons near Los Angeles. It would have been glorious to see the paradise that was California before it was overpopulated and overdeveloped. Just the descriptions of the lush orchards and groves would have been worth the price of the book. What I did not like about this book, however, was its horrid anti-Oriental sentiments, with Japanese people characterized as "the yellow peril".

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"Isolde: Queen of the Western Isles"

Rosalind Miles

I want to thank Lila from Indigo Pears for recommending this book to me. I have read a lot of books set in Scotland, but had never read much about the Irish (except, of course, for Leon Uris' "Trinity"). I have been wanting to learn more about the stories and myths of Ireland since I found out about my Irish heritage. This book filled the bill very well. It follows, to some extent, the story of the legendary lovers Tristan and Isolde as set out in the movie "Tristan and Isolde," starring Sophia Myles and James Franco. I loved the movie, and I love this book. I had never read Rosalind Miles before, but I have already ordered the second and third books in the series.

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"How Reading Proust Can Change Your Life"
(Not a Novel)

Alain De Botton

De Botton posits that by closely examining the writings of Marcel Proust, you can improve your life. Chapter titles include How to Read for Yourself, How to Express Your Emotions, How to be a Good Friend, How to Open Your Eyes and How to be Happy in Love.

I have previously professed a dislike for self-help books, but this is one I really enjoyed. The chapter on how to open your eyes teaches you to learn to appreciate your surrounding by studying works of the painter Jean-Baptiste Chardin. Proust gives an example of a young man gazing dejectedly around his mother's kitchen, a bourgeois and mundane scene of great contrast to his taste for beautiful and costly things which he cannot afford.

But, Proust would say, look at how Chardin takes objects of an ordinary nature and turns them into extraordinarily evocative and beguiling paintings: "A peach to him was as pink and chubby as a cherubim. " These paintings were windows onto a world at once recognizably our own, yet uncommonly, wonderfully tempting."

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"The Dance"

Oriah Mountain Dreamer

Yet another self-help book - two in one month! This book has been around quite some time, so it is probably familiar to a lot of people. I did find it useful, judging from the number of pages I earmarked. Basically, she finds hundreds of different ways to say the same thing that is on the book jacket: "What if the question is not why am I so infrequently the person I really want to be, but why do I so infrequently want to be the person I really am?"

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"Summer of Glorious Madness"

Christy Yorke

This story of a female psychiatrist who falls in love with her manic-depressive patient for one "deliriously liberating summer" is definitely beach read material. It was highly enjoyable though highly unbelievable. But it's set in San Francisco and the patient is a gardener, so it was thoroughly entertaining for me. At the end of the summer, life goes back to normal (but improved and enhanced) for the psychiatrist, and at the end of summer I will go back to more weighty literature, but for now, no apologies from me for reading lightweight material!

POETRY SUMMER

Daisy Lupin of "Cats in the Kitchen Flora in the Garden" (link at right) has initiated a summer long Poetry Fest and has invited readers to share their favorite poems. The theme for June is "Poetry We Loved as Children."

One of my favorite poems is listed below. My parents bought us the World Book Encyclopedia set when we were children. Along with the encyclopedias came a 15-volume set of children's stories, fairy tales and poems. How we pored over those volumes, especially me. They were well worn and much loved, and repaid my parents' investment many times over.

I must have been in my older childhood years when I read "The Highwayman" - a time when romance had entered my dreams, and dying for a loved one seemed a noble purpose indeed. However, I was still young enough to blush at the "barrel beneath her breast".

I loved the repetition - not only words but entire lines. And such imagery: the moon a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, the road a Gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor, Bess plaiting a dark red love knot in her long dark hair.

And who could forget dramatic lines like these? "Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat, When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat."

To read more about the poetry fest and read the poems already posted, go to www.daisylupinpoetryfest.blogspot.com

THE HIGHWAYMAN

(By Alfred Noyes)

Part One
I
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding-
Riding-riding-
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
II
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
IV
And dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-
V
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.
Part Two
I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a Gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching-
Marching-marching-
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride.
III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say-
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till here fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like
years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.
VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs
ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did
not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still!
VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night
!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death.
VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.
* * * * * *
X
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding-
Riding-riding-
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

ONCE IN A BLUE MOON

I almost missed it. The Blue Moon, that is. A Blue Moon is defined as the second time in a calendar month in which the moon is full. I was going by the calendar in my kitchen, which says that the month of June, rather than May, has two full moons. Lila at "Indigo Pears" (see link at right) says today is The Blue Moon, so I decided to check it out and found out that Lila was right.

For those of us in the United States, The Blue Moon appears tonight. The makers of my calendar must have been English. England (and I assume all of the British Isles?) will celebrate two full moons in June, with the Blue Moon appearing on June 30.

Because the full moons this summer fall on the cusps of the calendar months, the date you will celebrate The Blue Moon depends on the time zone in which you live. If you live in Auckland, New Zealand, the Blue Moon will be pushed back to July 30, but if you live in Sydney, Australia, you will celebrate the Blue Moon on June 3o.

BLUE MOON

(by Sofanya)

Today, the phrase "Once in a Blue Moon" means something that happens only rarely or fairly infrequently. In actuality, the Blue Moon happens only once about every 2.5 years.

The reason for the rarity of The Blue Moon is that the 29.53 days between full moons is just slightly shorter than the number of days in the average month.

Just as the moon is not made of green cheese, a Blue Moon will not appear blue. It won't look any different than the regular full moon, and it has no more effect on human behavior than any other full moon.

However, there have been rare occasions when the moon really did turn blue. After the volcano in Krakatoa ("East of Java") erupted, the moon appeared blue for two years, because of all the volcanic dust in the air. In 1927, extremely dry conditions in India caused the moon to appear blue. In 1951, smoke and dust from forest fires in Canada also turned the moon "blue."

The term "Blue Moon", however, has been around for centuries, and only took on the meaning of an infrequent event in the 20th century. Blue Moon is a term that is derived from common language usage of hundreds of years ago. A pamphlet printed in 1528 contained the phrase, "If you say the moon is blue, we must believe that it is true."

The first meaning of Blue Moon was "never". So if an 18th Century gentleman told a maid, "I'll marry you, m'lady, when the moon is blue," she would have wasted her time creating a trousseau.

According to certain folklore, it is said that when there is a blue moon, "the moon has a face and talks to items in its moonlight."

In recent years, the phrase "Blue Moon" has been a symbol of sadness and loneliness: "Blue Moon, you left me standing along, without a love of my own" . . . .

In my lifetime, "Blue Moon" has been a much-used name for night clubs or supper clubs. My Aunt Ina (the world traveler - to the faraway land of Montana) always raved about the famed "Blue Moon" supper club in Plentywood, MT. A few years ago, my husband and I happened to be in Plentywood, and The Blue Moon" is still there, 40-some years after I first heard about it and dreamed about it as a place of ballroom dancing, fancy food, exotic drinks and romance. (My husband, not being a romantic, chose a dining place with fast service so that the dogs would not be alone too long.) It would have been fun to check out Plentywood's Blue Moon, which I imagined to be decorated in silver stars and navy blue walls. (Perhaps it is best for my romantic dreams that we did not dine at The Blue Moon.)

On those occasions when one waxes nostalgic, even after never-experienced events, perhaps one should partake of a "Blue Moon Martini", in which the two-most featured components are Bombay Sapphire Blue Gin and Blue Curacao.

TEN YEARS AFTER

JEFFREY SCOTT BUCKLEY

Today is the 10th anniversary of the death of Jeff Buckley. I wrote a post about my admiration for Jeff's music in January, but since no one was reading my blog then, I thought I would reprint it today:

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Tonight has been a Jeff Buckley night. I have been listening to his CD, "Grace", and skimming through Merri Cyr's book, "Jeff Buckley: A Wished-For Song."


My fascination with Jeff Buckley began with a haunting song I heard on "Crossing Jordan." I HAD to find that song. First I learned its name, "Hallelujah", then I began to search for the singer. Leonard Cohen wrote it but oh my Lord, no. Not his version. Rufus Wainwright recorded a version. Better than Cohen's, but not quite right. I even listened to Gavin DeGraw's feeble imitation. Finally, I discovered that the haunting, ethereal voice belonged to Jeff Buckley. I later read that even though Cohen wrote the song, it is considered to be Jeff Buckley's song.


I bought "Grace" and listened to it over and over. I ordered Cyr's book and became entranced with the man as well as the musician. I checked out Jeff's websites and read "Dream Brother", Jeff's and his father's biography.


I learned that Jeff was the son of 60s folk singer Tim Buckley. Tim wanted nothing to do with Jeff and his mother after his birth. This rejection, of course, affected Jeff profoundly. However, it was his father's death at age 28 that ironically helped Jeff begin his career. At Tim Buckley's tribute, Jeff - virtually unknown - went onstage and played. Who, everyone asked, was that young man with such talent? He quickly drew raves for his otherworldly, (some say) eight-octave voice. "Grace" and touring brought him a measure of fame. On May 29, 1997, the eve of beginning recording sessions for his next album, he drowned in the Wolf River in Memphis, TN. He was only 30.


Jeff left a world of mourners - fellow musicians, friends and fans. His circle of friends was worldwide. Not only was he a tremendously gifted musician, but he was also a very special man: "Such a true artist, such a generous spirit", "So likable, so innocent", "On this earth but not of this earth." "Jeff was from the heart and soul."

Spiritual, introspective, searching, endearing - that was Jeff Buckley. He profoundly affected the people who met him, having "the ability to make every person feel, even if it was for one second, that they were the most important person in the universe".


Jeff was only semi-famous when he died. I didn't know of him during his lifetime. Why then, was Jeff Buckley so important to the world of music? Because he was an inspiration to the best musicians of our time: Jeff Beck, Robert Plant, Patti Smith, R.E.M., Bono, Elvis Costello, Eddie Vedder of Pearl Jam. Bono called him "A pure drop in an ocean of noise."


He had a tremendous effect on the music industry. He was called the future of rock and roll and his music "a yardstick by which people compare other music." "Every (singer) wants to be like Jeff," said one friend, "but no one ever will."


So today, I listen to Jeff to not only hear my beloved "Hallelujah", but also to marvel at the pure choirboy voice on "Corpus Christi Carol". (Who else could take a medieval chant and put it on a rock album?)


I listen to Jeff to visualize scenes like this: "I lost myself on a cool damp night/I gave myself in that misty light/Was hypnotized by a strange delight/Under a lilac tree" ("Lilac Wine") or "Looking out the door I see the rain fall/Upon the funeral mourners/Parading in a wake of sad relations/As their shoes fill up with water". ("Lover, You Should Have Come Over")


Jeff had a premonition of his early death, no doubt about it. In "Eternal Life" he sings, "Eternal life is now on my trail. Got my red glitter coffin now, need just one last nail". In "Grace," he sings, "There's the moon, asking me to stay, Long enough for the clouds to fly me away. Well, it's my time coming, I'm not afraid to die".


On that spring evening in 1997, Jeff, waiting restlessly for his band to arrive in town, waded into the Wolf River for a carefree swim. Four days later, his body washed up at the foot of Beale Street, Memphis' famed "musicians' street." I suppose that you could say of many a man, "He died too soon, too young." But I believe that with Jeff's death the world was robbed of a musician like no other.


"His death was so hard to believe because he was so godlike in his talents. You couldn't believe his life could be snuffed out. That he was mortal. His talent was so immortal. He was so vulnerable with a lot of baggage and problems to work out and at the same time he had this ascendance, talent beyond even him." (George Stein )

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Added May 29, 2007

I wrote recently about striving for three qualities in my life: serenity, grace, and class. Jeff's album was entitled "Grace", and recently I ran across a quote from Jeff about grace:


"Grace is what matters. In anything. Especially life, especially growth, tragedy, pain, love, death. About people, that's what matters. That's a quality I admire very greatly . . . It sort of keeps you alive and keeps you open for more understanding."

Rest in Peace, Jeff.

ANTIQUE STORE TREASURES

My sister Glori and I went poking around an antique mall on Saturday. I bought a few odds and ends: A book, some silver serving pieces, a little pie bird, a Gurley candle, all for just a few dollars each. I also spotted the china above. This is the American Limoges "Toledo Delight " pattern in the "sand" color, the same pattern Dan's mother used for her best china.

After Lil died, Dan's brother Gordon, as the oldest of the four brothers, claimed the china. This really pissed off Dan. Among other things, we inherited Lil's freezer, which was still full of frozen goods. There, under a layer of angel food cake slices, was one of the plates. It had a hairline crack, so Lil must have felt it was okay to put in the freezer. "At least Gordon didn't get that one," Dan remarked. We have treasured that plate for 14 years.

So, when I spotted eight dinner plates, a big platter and one saucer all for $28.00, I debated about whether or not I should get them. Was Dan really attached to that pattern, or was he just mad that Gordon got it (Gordon not being his favorite brother)? I decided to leave it and ask Dan when I got home. His answer was immediate. "Get it!" he said. I checked this pattern out on EBay and elsewhere on the Internet, and found I would be getting a very good deal on the pieces.

So today, I went back and purchased the set. This will now be our best china. Our previous "best" china had been purhased piece by piece through a grocery-store promotion. We don't mind if there are no matching cups and saucers, and it will be fun to look for the odd serving piece here and there.

While at the antique mall today, I found something else: The print shown below, Maxfield Parrish's "Enchantment", in a gorgeous ornate gold frame. Although I was not planning to purchase anything more, I bought it. I had planned that, when I got a new job, I would treat myself to a print of J. W. Waterhouse's "The Lady of Shalott". But I can order that print on the net anytime, and I am very fond of Parrish's work, so I went for it. And, as the shopkeeper said when she was wrapping my purchases: "And were you planning to line your coffin with the money you had saved your whole life?"

That clinched it. "Enchantment" is now hanging in a place of honor in my living room.

IN FLANDERS FIELDS

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

**********

We are the dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow.

Lived and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

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Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high

If ye break with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields

(Major John McCrae, MD)

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Major McCrae, a member of the Canadian Expeditionary Forces in World War I, wrote this now famous poem in May, 1915, after the Second Battle of Ypres (Belgium). Although I have known about this poem since I was a school girl, it now holds much more significance for me.

After my second cousin Shirl from Golspie, Scotland, "discovered" us members of the North Dakota branch of her Clan Munro, she invited us to read all about the family on the Ancestry.com website. There, I learned that one of my Scottish great-uncles was gassed at Ypres and taken prisoner, while another was wounded twice at Ypres but lived to fight heroically in many more battles.

Two other great-uncles fought in The Great War, meaning my Great-Grandmother Hughina had four souls to worry about and pray for.

Since thankfully I have no friends or family members who have fallen since - be it in World War II, the Korean War, The Vietnam War, the Gulf War, or the War in Iraq - I would like to take today, Memorial Day, to celebrate these men who fought against a terrifying enemy, the dreaded "Hun" who threatened to overtake all of Europe and possibly America.

I don't know if many Americans realize how horrid WW I was, as our country entered into the fray so late. Trench warfare was cold, muddy, smelly, bloody, gruesome, terrifying and shell-shocking. In short, it was HELL.

It is said that England lost a whole generation of young men as "cannon fodder" to the war, and I am sure it can be said of Scotland as well. When I first read the stories of my Scottish great-uncles, I bawled my eyes out to think that these young men whom I never had the privilege of knowing had fought and died for future generations, including me, their American relative who was born so long after they died.

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Sgt. Archibald Munro

Canadian Army

Three of the Munro lads from Golspie immigrated to Canada in their young manhood. One of them was my grandfather, Duncan, who had joined the Canadian Rifles and was preparing to go to war when the Armistice was signed. Another, Donald, had to have been Hughina's "Fourth Son" engaged in battle, although all records for Donald have since been lost.

The third was Archie, already married and a father. Looking through his records, Shirl and I have concluded that Archie lied about his age - downward - to get into the army as part of the British Overseas Expeditionary Force. He was among the first 30,000 Canadian troops to enter the war.

Archie's service was cut short. He was caught in the first attack in which Germans used gas, for which the Allies were unprepared. He was left in No Man's Land at Ypres for 24 hours, then was captured by the Germans. He spent 18 months as a prisoner of war. At the POW camp, the "Spanish" flu was killing prisoners by the hundreds. Archie, who had gone into a coma, was thrown out with the dead. Fortunately, a Russian doctor checked the pile of corpses and found Archie still alive and persuaded a German doctor to send him to a hospital.

Later Archie was sent to recuperate in Switzerland, where hospital care and the clean mountain air helped improve his health. He was later sent to England in a prisoner exchange. Before the war was out, he was sent back to Canada, where the government sent him on tours to lecture about his experiences among the terrifying Huns.

Archie and his family later moved to Chicago. He succumbed to his injuries and died in 1921.

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Sgt. William A. Munro

Seaforth Highlanders

Before the war, William Munro was an athlete - a noted footballer (soccer player) - and a newspaper reporter. He had "a fine manly bearing", and was "a most estimable young man." For a time, his letters from the front were, said a newspaper for which he had worked, "an outstanding feature of the paper."

After a furlough home, waiting to board a train back to the front, he was quoted as saying, "Get your flags ready for victory, and don't forget a good Union Jack for the centre!"

William was, newspaper articles recounted, "an ideal type of Highland soldier and a great favourite with his comrades." He was "a valuable non-commissioned officer and a soldier to his fingertips." His men "loved him and would follow him to the last."

"The last" came on Nov. 13, 1916. He was 25 years old. All of Golspie mourned.

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Regimental Sergeant Major

John Alexander (Jack) Munro

King's Own Scottish Borderers

Like his brother, John Alexander (Jack) Munro, was an athlete, a frequent winner in Scottish Highland games. He was "a fine strapping fellow, courtly in manner, held in highest esteem in Golspie."

Jack went to France in 1914, at the beginning of the war, and fought through all of the outstanding engagements and battles of the war: The Retreat from Mons, Ypres, St. Julien, the Battle of the Marne, The Somme Offensive. He was swiftly promoted through the ranks, and achieved the rank of regimental sergeant major, a remarkable feat for a man so young. He went through a long spell of trench warfare.

During one engagement, in the face of fierce shelling and machine gun fire, he carried one of his officers off the field. He was well known for continually denying himself to help his wounded comrades, even to the length of giving up his own field dressing.

Jack was wounded four times, the last most severely. After recuperating, he was posted as an instructor and could have remained in that position, but "his whole desire was to be in the firing line along with his comrades."

On April 12, 1917, he was killed by a shell while again helping a comrade back to safety. He was only 23 years old. His death came just five months after his mother was devastated by the news of William's death.

Jack's obituary reported that "the community of Golspie could hardly accept the sad tidings. They simply refused to believe such a gallant life had at last been tragically ended."

He was posthumously awarded the Military Cross for "conspicuous bravery on the field of battle."

Today, Memorial Day, I am so proud to honor and name among my relatives these stalwart, steadfast, brave men who made, as the cliche says, "the ultimate sacrifice". I am sure that they, like the soliders in "Braveheart", "fought like warrior poets, and won [our] freedom."

They are my heroes.

"J" IS FOR...

I thought I would show you my new note cards, which I found last night while looking for clothes at TJ Maxx. It was the only box of initial note cards there so I was glad it was "J" for Julie, originally Julia, named after my sweet lovely Grandma Julia.

I am a sucker for note cards and stationery, and have to restrain myself from buying more than I will actually use. Like Carmen of "Strawberries and Champagne," I love journals - lined or unlined, cloth or paper covers - but definitely decorative. I also adore those little notebooks with the elastic or snap closures, just right for carrying in a purse. I like all the photo albums, the "to do" lists and the address books, be they decorated with floral or vintage designs, famous art reproductions or original artwork, photos of foreign scenery or towns, collage or nature patterns. In short, I am a goner for all paper products. Last night I also found a cool paper accordion portfolio to store all those papers and little notes that have been stacked in wobbly towers on my computer and hard drive.

I don't know why I went into TJ Maxx for clothes; they never have anything in my size. But elsewhere I did find a beautiful emerald green blouse. My eyes are hazel, but when I wear a green blouse my eyes turn green. I also found a beautiful, floaty, lavender, green and white over blouse with a white tank top.

It is hard for me to find nice clothes in my size, especially since I have fore sworn cotton tops, as much as I like them. Because I am such a schlubbuh (spelling?), as my German friends call me, I am always spilling food down my front, so I need something that is stain proof. I also refuse to dress like a dowdy matron!

ON MEMORIAL DAY, I REMEMBER

(By Tom Chapman)

**********

Dear Mom and Brother John,

Sorry, I did not bring flowers to your graves this year. In fact, it has been four years since Glori, Kelsey and I were at the tiny Larson cemetery on the crest of the little hill overlooking the village where we had so many good years.

I am sure the crosses, ribbons and silk flowers are faded by now. Maybe someone finally tossed them away, although I don't know if the cemetery association is still active. Sorry. I just can't bear to go up that way anymore. It's too depressing. My people are gone; only tombstones remain. The schools are closed, houses are empty, storefronts are bare and bleak, the prairie is reclaiming the land. Northwestern North Dakota was never highly-populated. Now its faced with extreme out migration.

I have to tell you about the last time we visited you. It was Memorial Day weekend, and we had just buried Aunt Mary ourselves. Mary had died at the end of March, and was cremated. We arranged to come up to Crosby over the long holiday weekend and oversee her burial. I had envisioned that the undertaker would be there to place the container in the carefully-dug hole, and the pastor would say some words. Maybe not a full graveside ceremony for just the three of us, but a few words, surely. What a surprise we had in store for us.

When the weekend came near, I called the undertaker to verify arrangements. To my shock I found out that he and the pastor would be out of town for the long weekend, but he would "leave the mortuary's garage unlocked so we could pick up the ashes." Allllrighty then. No words from the pastor, okay, WE could say some words or recite a poem, then place the ashes in the hole. "No, he said, "You have to dig the hole yourself."

Picking up the ashes from the garage was surreal enough. They were in a baggie in a hard black plastic container inside a cardboard box. I was not prepared for this. Then out to the cemetery. This is Memorial Day weekend, you understand, with lots of people placing flowers and grooming graves, and there we were digging a hole. I'm sure people thought we were grave robbers.

The ground was so hard we thought of giving up and throwing the ashes over the fence, but that is illegal in this state. Eventually, we managed to get a shallow hole dug and the ashes placed. The replaced turf stuck up higher than the rest of the ground, but we didn't care. Hopefully the granite marker would settle the dirt. The more this strange day played out, the more macabre it got, and we reacted by getting silly. We even have photos of us taking turns digging the hole, taken by a friend of Mary's who came out to the cemetery with us. So even in the midst of sadness we found laughter, albeit somewhat ghoulish.

Today, I place flowers in spirit on your two graves at Larson. Glori and Kelsey would add flowers for Ole. In Crosby, I place flowers at Mary's, Grandma Julia's, Grandpa Duncan's and Uncle Billy's graves. In Valley City, at Uncle Donny's grave. In Montana at Uncle David's, in Minnesota at Aunt Ina's. In Washington at Uncle Scotty's. In California at Brother Ron's.

So many gone. I love and miss you all.

BAD BOSS, BAD BAD BOSS

I just heard from my friend at my former job that she has turned in her two-weeks notice. The last straw, my friend says, is when boss lady threw an abstract on the floor and yelled, "Get it done!" My friend was the last one left out of the group of us who had been transferred over from the Bismarck office.

Even the woman who has worked for the same company for 30 years is now looking for a job, because she has yet again been passed over for promotion by a twenty-something.

Aah, revenge is a dish best eaten cold.

Oh, sorry, Jude. No negative thoughts. Only positive thoughts from now on.