Potatoes

I haven't been writing lately, I know, because I'm making a plug-in for EV Nova, a computer game from Ambrosia Software that my father likes a lot and is my absolute favorite. It's basically a space game where you get involved in these "storylines" which involve doing everything from outrunning the bad guys and landing on a planet to shooting the bad guys. Anyway, my plug in just makes a new storyline and adds another three planets at the end. Pretty simple, if I could make that one planet landable...

...but that's not what I wanted to write about. You probably guessed that from the title, unless you were wondering how soon I was going to say: "But that's just small potatoes." I'm actually quite proud of the thing, but it's been severely cramping my blogging time. I have a deadline for this plug-in, as you shall soon see.

Potatoes. They're not native to Ireland, but they came to Ireland after the New World was discovered and quickly became a staple. And then the blight came. I read about it rather callously before now because it didn't quite make sense and it just didn't seem real. I have problems like that with history. Lately--either I've grown up some, or my emotions have been heightened by the impending move--history has become a lot more real, and some accounts are just devastating.

Then came school. And Nory Ryan's Song.

That book, by the way, is by Patricia Reilly Giff, and if you're prepared to be depressed, I highly recommend it. I would have devoured it had I not been forced to read a certain amount of chapters a day. As it was, I read it quickly and reread certain parts of the day's reading all day long. I have been fascinated by Ireland since I got into Celtic music, and I always wished that my ancestors from the British Isles were Irish, not Scottish! I didn't know much about Scotland, but more about Ireland, I confess, but the thing is, it seems there are a lot more Irish-y things where I live. Maybe my British Isles ancestors were Scots-Irish! There's a concept for you...

Anyway, I haven't read much about Ireland fiction-wise, and that's part of the reason I devoured the book. On Thursday, I was to write a newspaper article about the Potato Famine in which I might have interviewed Nory Ryan herself. So I had to do a wee bit more research. I looked up the Potato Famine, and found a comprehensive site on it. I turned on my Irish tunes (I do everything better while listening to music) and dived in to do my research.

What I found horrified me. The desolation a blight combined with some rather stupid-sounding English could bring. But I was transfixed. Pictures from the period showing what was going on heightened the reality.

The "Kesh Jig" echoed eeriely in my ears as I read about families dropping dead from hunger by the side of the road. Was this song, so airy and joyous, and this account, so tragic and horrifying, from the same place? Never mind about times. I continued to read, and I was astounded by the story. Planting small potato crops simply because there weren't enough potatoes, and why plant to have a foul rot set in, anyway, and all that--then having the crops turn out fine. But then when the farmers set a risk and planted their big crops again--BAM--that blight set in again.

I continued to read about coffin ships, poor immigrants, and those left behind. Then I came to the section about "after the famine". In Ireland. I was sitting there, thinking, "What? There were actually folks left in Ireland? Oh." I know that Ireland is still around today, and I've heard radio direct from Ireland. I've heard about the Sinn Fein, the Fenians, the IRA and the PIRA. I've finally cleared up in my mind the difference between Dublin and Belfast. But after reading these devastating accounts, my mind shut down, and I was legitimately surprised that there was anybody left.

"Rosin the Beau" was playing, and I realized that, yes, there are Irish left in Ireland, and, yes, I'd love to go there someday. Yet I know I'll never look at the Potato Famine the same way. How would history in Ireland--and America--be different if that had never happened?

P.S. I did get a pretty high score on my "article". Daddy gently added, though, that he could accuse me of "biased Journalism". Oh, well--I'd like to think that the English were just plain stupid. "Laissez faire" when people are dying by the truckload?!?! Come on, people....

Welcome, Royal Charlie!

Note: I am assuming you know about the Jacobite cause, here. Here is a link that should give you necessary background.
My English neighbor would probably kill me. It's all I can do to keep from singing Jacobite songs in the hallway. But I love Jacobite songs, and I sing them all the time. I checked to see which side the clan that maybe some of my ancestors came from was on. I found out they were neutral. They live just at the border of the Highlands and Lowlands according to the map I found, so I guess neutral was a good thing for them. But then I found "Bonnie Dundee"--a Jacobite guy from Charlie's father or grandfather, I forget. If you weren't on his side (and he had some religious skirmishes going on), he was "Bloody Clavers". History (of which I don't know the bias) seems to favor the "Bloody Clavers" side of this things to this neutral, peace-loving American hundreds of years later, but there is a song about "Bonnie Dundee". While: 1.) I don't like the song, and 2.) It's unlikely that "Bonnie Dundee" and I are related, it is fun to look at a song and wonder if the guy in the song is related closer than everybody is.

But my favorite Jacobite period is that of 1745, Bonnie Prince Charlie's time. My impression is that "Royal Charlie" was a class B jerk and the loyalty of his Highland men was undeserved, but, then again, who deserves loyalty? But I also see him as a fellow who was just 24 years old and probably somewhat spoiled, who probably wasn't too mature (but who am I to talk? I'm fourteen and act about half my age!), who never thought he could loose and never thought that there were folks (besides the obvious, I mean) who didn't like him. He had to be led away from Culloden Moor, shocked at his own defeat.

Anyway, I am working on a project to learn songs either from Charlie's time or a long time after (like Lady Nairne's songs) which are about him or the cause at that point. It's coming along slowly, as I bogged down in a song with a long list of--what? Clan names? Names of places? Famous people? I don't know!

I hope to post it here when I'm through, and it should be more interesting than my pondering about a cause I doubt many kids my age are even interested in!...

The Likes of You and I

My favorite song is Tommy Sands' "There Were Roses". It's the saddest song I've ever heard, and it teaches a good lesson, too--"An eye for an eye...and another eye for another eye, until everyone is blind." Good point.

I first heard it...actually, I've only heard it done by the Crossing on their CD "Dancing at the Crossroads." The first time I remember really listening to the words is when I was about eight or so, doing a dance to the first five tracks off that CD (This particular song was no. 5) and I was listening to the words while trying to come up with dances that would match the lyrics and the tune. Tall order. I didn't do very well. I remember, however, being properly shocked by the lyrics and instead of doing a wild arm fling through the flowing parts (which is my characteristic style), I looked downward, instead.

After that, the song haunted me. So I listened to it and finally got the lyrics straight. Two guys are good friends, one's Catholic, the other's Protestant (why should that matter? I wondered; and where is this "troubled northern land", anyway?) and then the Protestant one dies and so does the Catholic one. Obviously, I didn't know anything about Northern Ireland, and so I thought it a very strange, but beautifully tragic song. About this time, I got the impression that the killing in it was senseless. Well, it still is, and it makes sense from a historical and cultural perspective, but I'm the type of person who will look at bombings on the news and if I'm not sobbing or flicking the TV off, will be thinking: "That's stupid. Why are they doing that? They're just making life miserable for everyone."

Then I did a little research when I knew a bit more and so I discovered all about Northern Ireland. Not pretty. Anyway, I finally knew what was going on. Of course, the killing still strikes me as pretty senseless. I guess that's one thing the song pounded into my head!

Finally, today at lunch, Mom says, "Now, just what's the likelihood of that actually happening?" I said I'd look up the origins of the song, I was curious myself. Anything to get out of my math and science! On Wikipedia, I finally found out that the song is, indeed, based on a true story. Both fellows were friends of Sands. And knowing a story is true makes it all the sadder.

Incidentally, a strange thing about this song is that I've seen versions with the two fellows named Allan Bell and Sean O'Malley. The Crossing's version (and mine) has them named Isaac Scott and Sean McDonald. Why the discrepancy? What's the original version? Hmmm, I guess it means more research...
Caitriona

P.S. The title of my post comes from my second favorite line: "Those who give the orders are not the ones to die. It's Scott, McDonald, and the likes of you and I." I overheard one person complaining about the grammer of this line once. I bit my tongue and did not say that I don't need no grammer in a song as long as it makes sense...

The Empty Halls

I live on a college campus. Not a very big or active one, but a college campus all the same. One of the classroom buildings has a little library only open three nights a week, but the room is adjacent to my mother's office, so I can go there between times and look around.

On this campus, there are bells to mark the beginning and end of every break, and they don't turn them off during weekends. So the bells ring anyway, automatically, and it's an eerie sound.

Suddenly, you hear this incredible bell ringing the way that it always does--but then you hear something else. Or you hear the absence of it, I should say. There should be a thousand students bursting out of the halls, talking and laughing, eager for a break--or else the sound of teachers beginning (my mother begins with a song) a class, and running feet as the tardy ones hurry. Instead, it's quiet.

Oh, so quiet.

Haunting. Like somebody's hijacked a student and now they're cancelling all students for awhile for safety's sake. Yet the bells are still there, ringing, calling--"Come" or "Go", to the dust mites on the walls and the ever-ticking clock.

Yet with the strange, haunting sound comes the knowledge that tomorrow is Monday--and the halls will be bustling, once again.

Dumb Songs

There are some really dumb songs out there. I mean in every genre, though what I'm targeting right now are folk songs. There are tons of songs out there (especially ballads) which tell stupid stories. I don't mean wrong (I don't like "Bogie's Bonnie Belle", but it's got a good story, I'll say that for it), I just mean stupid. They get by because of catchy lyrics or tunes. Here are a few examples:

Barbara Allen. The whole story is stupid. Poor William is in love with Barbara, who could care less about him. You'd think he'd take the the hint that she isn't this great match for him, but, no, he just goes and dies and makes her feel guilty for it before he goes (though he does charge his kith and kin to "be kind to Barbara Allen"). So guilty, in fact, that she dies. And then they are buried together and are so in love that their graves grow red roses and green briars which tie into lover's knots. Oh, please.

The Foggy, Foggy Dew. This one, the story is so bad that I'm not even going to recount it. I found the lyrics once because there were a few in a book I read and that was enough. But let's just say that most of the chorus is some guy making excuses for himself (you can save people from the foggy, foggy dew many other ways than...) and then all of a sudden it's years later and he's still making excuses for himself. And his son happens to be there, working at the weaving trade with his father. Apparently the kid (young man? How old is he, anyway?) takes after his mother. (The one redeeming quality about this song (besides the tune, that is!), is that in more expanded lyrics you find the woman died and so the line "he reminds me of her" is very poignant.) I have mixed feelings about this one.

So, there, I vented about folk songs. You may or may not disagree with me. Who reads this thing anyway? Feel free to leave a comment if you have questions, comments, or just want to say hello. I try to answer all of them.

Auchindoun

It's raining today--and Mt. Flag is covered in a blanket. Mt. Flag used to have a flag atop it (though a friend claimed it was only a red sweatshirt), but the flag has since disappeared. This I hear from word of mouth and pictures--I haven't had time or stamina to get to the top.

Across from Mt. Flag is the many-peaked Mt. Jasmine. Actually, the locals call it something else. Mt. Flag is the real name for the hill so proud outside our kitchen window--we even have our Mt. Flag Road here. Mt. Jasmine is my name for the hill that is simply known as: "the mountain behind the village". I call it Mt. Jasmine because there's a lot of flowers.

The way the mountains look reminds me of the picture I saw of Auchindoun castle. Auchindoun is in Scotland. It's had a turbulent past--at one point the McIntoshes destroyed a previous version of it, commemorated in that ballad, "The Burning o' Auchindoun". I have no idea whether or not there was a real Willie McIntosh, who in the ballad says: "Hang me, heid me, that will never fear me!" I guess he really wants to burn down the castle! Anyway, it was either gutted, but not burned to the ground; or else it was rebuilt, because it stands in misty ruins now. It's beautiful, really. Here's a picture. Oh, I guess they did rebuild it after the McIntoshes burned it.

Anyhow, I like this better than the castle that "my clan" (since I'm not a member and neither are my parents, it's simply a name similarity) has, for the simple fact that it's prettier. All alone, kind of wrecked and ruined...what might have gone on in more peaceful times? I love thinking about it...

Great Expectations

For school, my mother and I are reading Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. I've already fallen in love with it--there's a certain haunting poesy about it, and it's got some pretty funny parts.

We're taking five weeks to read the thing! It's scheduled that way, and my parents are not exactly schedule slaves--but they do make me read things with the schedule for a simple reason: Otherwise, I'd read the whole book the first day, and be left with nothing to read until the next book started, or at least until the end of the year. Oh, well. If it weren't for Sonlight, I wouldn't have half as many books to read. Sonlight is my curriculum.

I've only gotten to chap. 8, so please don't comment and give me any spoilers. But I've just been haunted by Miss Havisham, who is decidedly tragic. I think she could help it, you know--if she'd let herself be happy. But she isn't, and I've got the impression that she's using this Estella person to get revenge indirectly on...someone, I don't know who.

Oh, I can't wait to read more!

My favorite character: Joe. He seems to be a sweet, sympathetic person. I like him a lot. Just read his back story today.

Anyway, I can't wait to read more, like I said!

Why is everything at elevens?

I shouldn't be writing this now. I should sit on my duff like a good little girl and wait until September, at the sixth anniversery. But I'm writing a song for then, and I was just thinking about it, so I'm going to write the prose now.

I was not directly affected by 9-11. I never lost anyone I knew and loved; I never knew anyone who was affected by it; and I lived in Washington State. Not only were there no victims from Washington State, but my very protective parents made sure I saw no footage, no pictures--in short, what I've learned has been from my own resources, grapevine fashion (driven from desperation, because I had a need to write about it). I wasn't really affected.

But in a way, every American was--the first attack on our soil in years. And so many innocent civillians dead--though death of any kind is horrible, the thought of angry, twisted folks killing soldiers isn't so bad. But civillians...just ordinary folks living their lives, who did nothing wrong but work at a tall, beautiful building or board an airplane to California. And so we were are affected, because we are civillians. And it could happen us, if we were at the wrong place at the wrong time.

I lived through a historical moment that my grandchildren are going to be reading about in school. So someday, I wonder, will they know or wonder what was going on at that time far away? Will they care? Will they care that Grandma Cait was busy playing with paint samples with Great-Aunt Rivka when they heard the news? Is it important?

I read a book about Pearl Harbor. It was historical fiction about a girl about my age who lived in Hawaii during that time and saw some of the attacks. Heavy stuff. But it took place in Hawaii, not San Jose or Seattle or Chicago or something like that. That's because Hawaii was where the action was. San Jose, Seattle, and/or Chicago was boring. Those folks were either not awake or not bothering. Then the news came 'round, and they were all shocked.

Like it happened here. I guess a lot of peoples have drawn parallels and that's because there are parallels. My homeschool curriculum is big on "comparing and contrasting", so if I really thought and studied on it, I could probably come up with some of the biggest differences and all that. But...hm, still.

I don't know. It was a big tragedy, 9-11 was, that we haven't quite come out of yet. Friends and family still mourn. Caring people still sympathize and cry over the old stories. The New York Skyline is still missing its buck teeth. There's a big hole where once hundreds of people worked, cried, laughed, and lived normal lives. We still have security measures that would be unneccessary were it not for the horror that people seem to want to inflict on others.

I think that's what makes history. Joys and sorrows that many, many people face that are preserved for generations by their long-time healing, their effects that change--if not the world--entire cities, states, nations. And it's scary to think that, not only will I one day reminisce about the "good old days" with my cronies as we sit in the nursing home, but my children and grandchildren will be wondering what I was doing at the time that was history. Because I was alive at the time, and I have memories.

I only hope that it doesn't give them too many sleepless nights. Or nightmares. Or fear of the dark.

Is go dte tu mo mhuirnin slan

I just found this haunting line in the Gaelic of a song I know well in English. Looking at the translation, it's a different version than the one I know (but then, every musician has their own versions, and if I know a song, it's generally from Atwater-Donnelly). The meaning is: "and safe forever may my darling be". Beautiful! I am not in love (for one thing, I'm much too young) with anybody, but the sentiment can be carried over to anyone you love in a different sense.

I don't speak any Gaelic (except for two phrases in Scots Gaelic), but I found the pronounciation key: "Iss go day too mavoorneen slahn". It looks ugly written out phonetically, but there it is. I'd love to learn Gaelic. Except, I know that if I were to learn Gaelic I'd have to lose my best excuse for not learning French: "I can't make sense of the spelling". I'm sticking to Spanish...at least until my spelling in English gets much better...

From London to Bombay

Last night we watched 2 or 3 episodes of Michael Palin's Around the World in Eighty Days. I loved it. I think I surprised our British neighbors, one of which asked me if I enjoyed it and got the enthusastic and sleepy response of "I loved it!!!" in a shaky voice, for parts of it were deeply moving, at least to me. As a side note, apparently Michael Palin went to the guy's school and was in his brother's class. Talk about a small world!

For those of you who don't know, this is a documentary of a man trying to go around the world in eighty days without using airplanes in modern times (1989). It's wonderful. I don't know if he makes it or not. While I encourage you to comment, don't tell me if he does or not. I'm hoping that I might get to see the rest somehow. Anyway, the inspiration was Jules Verne's classic (which I read and very much enjoyed!) and Phileas Fogg got around the world in exactly eighty days. Pity, Michael Palin seems to be already married, so he can't go rescuing a future wife from a sati, can he?

Well, suffice to say, this is really doing it all through the back door. True, Palin does start off on the Orient Express, but after that, we see him doing everything from collecting garbage in Venice to riding a dhow from Dubai to Bombay. He was just getting off the dhow when the episode ended.

I was amazed. My sister and I--Becky is four years younger than me but we're huge pals--are going to look up some of the things we saw. We even saw some of Saudi Arabia, which, as you may know, is a place where you can't go as a tourist, then or now. I guess the BBC pulled some strings or something. Amazing!

There's just too much to tell, and I cannot do it justice. My writing skills are meager at best, and I doubt that even the best writer in the world could do it justice. The only better thing, I think, is to actually go to the places he went. Of course, now I want to. I've been to: Thailand, China, and Canada. Almost went to both Indonesia and Cambodia, but that didn't work out. However, some day I hope to add some more to the list.

I'm curious now. Palin's going to be going through America. Just how will my country show up under a British tourist's point of view? I'm definitely curious...because there are at least two sides to every country, and living in a place automatically and completely shuts off the other one, unless you can get your hands on some tourists' impressions that are unabashedly simply their point of view. Scathing where scathing is deserved and all that. Well, I'm keeping my fingers crossed!

And I highly recommend this title.

Granny, do your teeth sing?

I realize I've been kind of moody lately--and I'll be frank, it's because we're moving in a few weeks. I've only lived here for two years, but already I have a deep affinity for it, and it's breaking my heart. Well...not that bad. But the way my chest hurts when I think about it might indicate that.

But I am actually a happy person. So, in order to keep up that image (and also because I had nothing philosophical to say today), I'm going to post about a lighter subject. So, here it is...

My sister lost a tooth yesterday. She was all excited. She's ten years old but doesn't write well yet, so she asked me to write a letter to the Tooth Fairy for her. Now, in our family, we get to ask the Tooh Fairy for candy or a small trinket or food item, as well as money. The Tooth Fairy has left me something that looks suspiciously like it's from the dollar store as many times as she's helped me out of dire financial straits (one time so I could buy Bach's "Brandenburg Concertos" and another time so I could buy some plastic "jewels" for my pet frog's tank). I've often--but not as often as my sister--asked her questions, to which she replies ambiguously. Most of the time.

But yesterday, my sister asked: "Do Catherine's teeth sing?"

Which surprised me, but it shouldn't have. I sing all the time. Spirituals, folk songs, and, especially Jacobite songs--I'm working on a project I'll tell you about later--and so on. It's quite natural that my teeth should, too. The Tooth Fairy confirmed this fact, writing (in her handwriting which didn't look so much like Mum's when I was getting notes from her): "Her teeth sing all the time!"

Another singing story is that when I was playing with some friends, they were teaching us clapping games that they knew. I didn't know any, but I'd made one up to a cute folk song: "Granny, Will Your Dog Bite?"

It's a simple game. Clap your hands together, then you and your partner clap right hands, clap together again, then you and your partner clap left hands. Repeat that until you get to "No, child, no!" when you wave your pointer finger in the air and shake your head sort of in time to the music. The lyrics are this:

Granny, will your dog bite,
Hen peck, cat scratch?
Granny, will your dog bite,
Sow root in the tater patch?
Granny, will your dog bite,
Old gray goose hiss?
Granny, will your dog bite?
No, child, no!

I suggested to my friend that we up the tempo, as she had asked me where the song came from. Aubrey Atwater does it on her CD, "Daily Growing", and in that one, she starts the kids singing it responsively, then she starts playing it faster...and faster...and faster! I've seen her do this live, and it's hilarious to be a part of. You have to sing incredibly fast, and she's up there pounding away at the banjo at a speed that would probably go on the Autobahn (if she were driving a car) and by the end, everybody is giggling. Anyway, after hearing and seeing that, I can't do it really slow for too long. We did up the tempo a little bit, but not too much.

My friend's sister--my sister's friend, as well!--overheard and wanted to try. With her, we did up the tempo quite a bit, but it still didn't quite match that. For one thing, we were in a restaurant, and we were in danger of hitting patrons, knocking over glasses, and stuff like that! It was pretty funny. We did clapping games (like "Concentration") because our game of jerking the place mats around wasn't working because there were water glasses.

Now, besides sharing a couple of slightly amusing stories, I imagine you'll think I'm insane. That's fine with me. If this is insanity (which actually, I don't think it is), I might as well be insane. It's fun!

Profiles

I have virtually no other web space--so I have to post my profile pictures here. Yes, if you're wondering, I did add the Dagobah-like clouds to the picture. I said I liked rain!

Means to an End

We went hiking today. It was wet, and rainy, and kind of humid, but we went anyway, meeting outside of our apartment building. I went down the stairs humming "Skye Boat Song", but I stopped as soon as I got outside and met up with our English neighbor, who was hiking with us. He forgot his umbrella, so he went back up the stairs to get it, and immediately, I came in where I left off--"Many's the lad fought on that day..."

Our English neighbor has a Scottish wife, so a better way to describe them would be: "British". Except, he's incredibly English, and she's definitely Scots. One time they were listening to me play the tin whistle--which is more compact than a fiddle or a recorder, which is why I was playing it--and I accidentally played "Scotland the Brave". I hadn't thought of the implications that would bring. Anyway, Mrs. W was tapping her toe and grinning (grinning for her, I mean) and Mr. W was sitting there with a sort of a strained expression and managed to gasp out something not unfavorable, but not exactly delight, either. It was actually kind of funny, because I hadn't meant to do anything of the sort!

Up we went into the mountains. There was mist all over them, and it was beautiful. But it was tiring. There were winged insects flying around, with four wings not unlike dragonfly wings, but with really short slim bodies. They looked like butterflies, fluttering about. Mr. W said they were lacewings, then later corrected himself and said they were flying ants. Lacewings or ants, they were pretty. One got caught in a spider's web. I saw its body, drained of fluid, transparent; its wings darkening. Death in an insect is not unlike death in a person, at first glance, which is why I hate to see that. I have no moral or personal convictions against eating meat, but I cannot see the death without feeling ill and horribly depressed. The utter resignation and limp appendages dangling--it's poetic, but also terribly, horribly tragic. This should not be.

I began to wonder--not because of the dead insect or anything--just why was I hiking? I could have stayed home today. Sadly, my answer probably is: "because I'm not in good shape". I'm in terrible shape. Part of my dumpiness is attributed to that, which doesn't concern me so much as the incredible fatigue that overtakes my soul and body as I try to climb up a fairly easy trail. But I also enjoy looking at mountain scenery--truly, unspoiled by cable cars or roads. Just being out in the middle with only a trail marring the unspoiled beauty of it.

However, our first resting spot was good enough for me. I might have stayed there for a long time and then gone down, had it been up to me. I have neither the stamina nor the desire to go up to the highest altitudes. Stunning views are camera and paintbrush fodder; if they're that stunning, I'll see them eventually. Just to get to where the pines grow--that's enough for me. Then I just like to be. I like to sing...spirituals, folk songs, rebel songs...all of those. To stroll and explore a finer area instead of reaching the great heights. To just sit and do something normal--maybe even read a book--just to be in the clean mountain atmosphere. That's what I want. I'm not complaining. It was a good hike today. But it seems that to me, hiking is not the end, it is the means to an end. And the end is...atmosphere, rest. That's what I like.

Extemporanea

It's hard starting a new blog. It's as hard as writing the first chapter in a book...or coming up with a title for your poem...or finding an introduction for the piece you're trying to arrange.

I've been doing this all, trial and error, for at least a half-hour. I finally decided I didn't have anything philosophical to say, and anyway, I must be on adrenaline or something--sobbing my heart out because of the song "Going Up Home" performed by Jerimoth Hill. I love that song; it's so true! But it doesn't generally make me cry. Must be teen hormones or something.

I thought I'd describe this room to you, but that seemed pointless. I thought I'd talk about the McIntoshes and Auchindoun castle and the ballad that sparked from that, but I didn't want to bore you with my ideas about what a great historical fiction book that could be built around that. I thought I might describe myself--but I'm no judge of who I am. How could I tell you the right thing?

So, I decided to simply start this blog. It's Gravelly Homestead--an alternate translation of my last name. I meant to start it in August, then that became July, then June...now May, because I didn't want anybody taking my address. If you spell it the British way, apparently somebody has. But I'm not British, I'm American, so I didn't need to worry.

It's raining outside, and, earlier, before the sun set, I saw it all green and gray--my favorite colors. Not even blue matches the strange mixture of mist and hills which comes with a rain. Now I'm listening to Atwater-Donnelly--my favorite music group--and their haunting, wistful harmonies and instrumentation...which make me think about rain and the strange world I built in my heart for the wispy spirits of the folksongs they sing. The rain blends eerily with them.

I love rain. I know there are folks who get depressed during winter and need to go to a sunnier place, but I love rain. Sun gets too cruel, sometimes. I just love rain and the softening of things...the feeling of gritty mud on my feet where it seeps over my sandals...the feeling of raindrops in my hair...the mist on the mountain.

On right now is Aubrey Atwater's song: "Quiet Sky", written about 9/11. I haven't heard many songs or poems in response to that, but this is the best I've ever heard. One line that sticks in my head: "Such a perfect day, in a perfect month". It did seem a perfect day that day, before I knew that, across the country, there were evil, twisted men shattering the lives of thousands.

And yet, Ms. Atwater's wistful voice, her quiet guitar doing a strange but beautiful accompaniment pattern--it all seems to match the rain, too. I suppose that's the way a song is. It starts out one way--written for one thing...but then brings more meaning to something totally different. I wish I could write like that.

I know this post is disorganized, but I think life is truly what Dorothy Parker called, ironically, "a medley of extemporanea". At least, my life is. So perhaps it's fitting that I start the blog this way.