Donald Trump is going… where?

This rhyme was originally published on Sometimes in October 2015, and  I decided to re-post it again now with a new title.  The original title was:  Who You Calling Imperfect?   

That post was written in response to an assignment in the Writing 101-Poetry class, which is alo repeating at this time.

 

SOMETIMES

[Writing 201, Poetry.  DAY 4: Imperfect, Limerick, Enjambment–which is a technique they must have taught when I was skipping English class in high school.]

           Who you calling imperfect?

There once was a boy named Donald

Who wanted to  be rich, and grow up to be President

ha ha! said the people as he started to

stump

but he knew what he was doing and had all the cards he needed to

trump,

and win the game

opponents screamed like angry cat matrons

and picked on his hair and his noisy patrons

but Donald just said they should “lump it!”

You haven’t a chance, you’re not one of us, they wailed

“is that so?” said Donald as he placed a standing order for tea and crumpets

to serve to his fans to keep them from starving on the campaign trail

His crowd of the faithful grew and grew

’til they…

View original post 12 more words

A Gift for Baby

 

               A GIFT FOR BABY

Hey little baby, what do you say?
I’ve brought you a gift for your birthday.
I think it will be your favorite gift,
I know you will savor it as long as you have it.

Among the bears and baby dolls,
Rattles and things of lullabies,
This gift is perfect for chewing
and feels good to the gums.

This Book is the best gift of all.
With word sounds as nice as they feel.
More precious than other gift buys
That are poorly regarded and soon discarded.

No hard decisions came to mind when
deciding what present to buy.
Price was no object yet the gift that I chose
is not pricey…but priceless.

Literacy the goal–many years hence–
tactile and visual treats for the senses.
All the prerequisites in content and theme
are tactful, thoughtful, and tasty.

©Sometimes2015

Literate for a Day

 

grand central station draft

the grand central station of the universe
souls of the travelers
lost in time
waiting eternally for their Lost Ones
waiting for the other shoe to drop
searching for the One that has come and gone
taking along the tattered and lonely souls
and broken hearts existing on the edge
and biding their time in waiting

What track is this?
did I miss my connection?
How far have I traveled afar and wide
should I have waited?
waited for you to return, even though you
said you wouldn’t…or couldn’t
did you say you should not?
though I know you wanted to.

There was never time to see it through
to a conclusion, whatever that could have been
is lost in a never-ending conundrum
what would have happened?

?l

It’s Here! It’s Here! It’s Here !

I’m still not breathing at 100%, but so far, so good.

WHAT is here?

I have been as anxious as a kid on Christmas morning, waiting patiently for it to arrive.

The song going through my head:   “I’m so Excited!  I just can’t hide it–I’m about to lose control, and I  think I like it!”

Yep, Windows10, the fabled new “best Windows ever!” version.

I’m cautiously optimistic.  So far I like Windows10 a lot, and they keep sending me little notes saying things like:  “How do you like it  so far?”   “Would you recommend 10 to your friends?”   “Do you like our adorable commercial featuring the adorable toddlers from all over the world who will ‘grow up with Windows10’ ?”

They needn’t think that I’m going to fall for that sweet-talk.   I’m going to wait until I have a chance to look it over.  They know how much I HATED Windows 8.1.   Everyone I know knows how much I detested it.   I don’t speak for everyone else in the world, but I don’t care if they “like” or “don’t mind” 8.1   But that’s just me.

Windows95, Windows98, Vista, XP, I liked Windows7…in fact 7 is the version was on my laptop (which I am writing this article on as we speak.  It was infinitely superior to Windows8, which came with my new “mainframe” computer (as I like to call it) last year…being the ONLY choice available on the very day I bought the PC.  It came equipped with Windows8, then immediately (like the next day) 8.1 hit cyberspace in an effort to compensate for the shortcomings of 8.

Oh–woe!   My experiences with photos came to a screeching halt…and my eBay and other images suffered.  I discovered by searching online that Windows8.1 had a “known issue” with Photo Gallery, and I had a heck of a time with trying to get the my pictures from my camera onto my published work.

Let me hasten to say that I am not a newbie computer person…I had my first computer in 1983, practically the dawn of everyday-people-with-computers.  I was the first kid on my block to have one.   It was a Kaypro2 (that’s a Roman numeral Two () II but it appears as two “Ls” and I certainly don’t want anyone to think it was called a Kayproll.  Good grief.

For those who are interested, my WordPress blog post entitled Rise of the Machines, published this spring, details my adventures in setting up and teaching myself to operate the computer. https://mumbletymuse.com/2015/01/26/rise-of-the-machine/

So I’m giving Windows10 the old college try.     It’s fast,  looks good, and seems to have banished the evil gremlins  to Computer-Hell.

Word Police–stop editing our dictionary

[Warning: Not Politically Correct]

The Word Police are at it again.  We aren’t allowed to say the word “thug.”

Thug is NOT a racist word.  It is a term coined back in the olden days to describe a certain type of criminal–almost invariably a white (caucasian) male..

Just consider, please, the uses of the word in common useage… here is a short list, and I apologize if it is narrow in application.  Possibly there is some generation-specific meanings, but none of them refer to any racial group.  Basically there are two main classifications that immediately come to (my) mind:

1. “Jack-booted thugs,” which in common useage refers to military or government troops that go around smashing things and beating people with clubs.  They wear heavy leather-boots that are very effective.  The jack-boots are actually bigger than life, and as the saying goes, twice as ugly.  These are the “storm troopers” of another era, but hey–a thug by any other name is still a thug.

2. so-called “union thugs.”   We heard a lot about these guys back in the days of the union fights.  The picture that one might conjur up is of a stocky muscular white guy–remember Bluto the villain of the Popeye comics?   If not, he  was a big bruiser (another bad word for the Word Police to add to their list) who regularly attempted to whip Popeye’s butt, but always got beaten up himself by the end of the comic strip.

bluto

3. “Street thugs,” as they were known, allegedly blustered about just committing stupid and intimidating actions against innocent bystanders.   My version of these guys includes bullies who beat up other kids in school with no apparent reason (like robbery) but just for the heck of it.

I think it is noteworthy to mention that in other countries, such as the UK and much of Europe, the types of characters I think of as “thugs” — are known as “Hooligans.”

Stereotypical Hooligans are those that show up at soccer (fubol) or other sports events, and if their team doesn’t win (or DOES win, sometimes) take the opportunity to beat up the players, bystanders, fans, passers-by…and create general havoc in stadiums or nearby city streets.

I hasten to point out here that the term “Thug” is relative.  Some people think that I am very opinionated about things like words and…well lots of things.  This is true.

If there is a stereotype thug, then HE (although women can be thugs, they are not usually thought of in that light.  Please don’t take any of my ramblings about  word-use as sexist.    There are special words for women, but all I wish to say about that is that “thug” isn’t really appropriate for a woman.

So–Word Police–please stop looking for excuses to turn everything anyone says into fodder for Political Correctness.

(Most Popeye paraphernalia remains under copyright in the United States until 2024.   This drawing of Bluto is in the public domain.)

Diagram Discussion …on Page 29

[Day 14, Writing101.  Write about a word on page 29 of the nearest book.]

The nearest book is on a shelf over my left shoulder.  It is on a shelf with a book on Tai Chi, Laughing, and one on the Tarot.  The one I touched first is called Ribbon Basics, by Mary Jo Hiney & Joy Anckner.   It is a book on needlework.   The word that jumps out at me, on page 29,  is:  DIAGRAM.

Let me say that I love needlework almost as much as I love writing.

The difference, now that I think about it, in Writing and Needlework is related– and in some ways reaches a similar goal, which is expression of myself.  In writing all that is really needed is a pencil and paper, or a computer keyboard or equivalent.  Written material flows from deep within me, as with any writer…it stems from a memory or a correlation or a spark of a word or phrase, or picture.

When it comes to needlework of any kind, my original ideas are few and far between.  Faced with a blank piece of fabric I have no idea where to begin.  Add a variety of colored thread or yarn, I might be able to produce a very simple piece of art, limited to a geometric design or a stick-figure outline.  A simple flower-like design could be in storage in my brain, but when it comes to free-form art creation that just isn’t in my talent box.

So what is needed for someone like me to produce a work of art that could approach gift-quality, would require a DIAGRAM.  In my instruction book at hand, the authors have created wonderfully beautiful wall-hangings and pictures, bouquets fashioned with deftness of hands and creativity that could only be genetic in artistic accomplishment.

Sure, I could create something that would approach a piece of needlework that could be acceptable…say to my mother or a beloved aunt…who would cherish it as something that had been created by Me.  The worth  of it would be sentimental, or possibly it could have some intrinsic value if I used gold thread on precious antique velvet.   It would never be a collectors’ item, or be displayed in a museum…unless the maker were famous for some other pursuit–not for embroidery skills or working with ribbon.

The Diagrams in this book are intricate and precise, and the results breath-taking in their beauty even on the printed page.

To draw an analogy here, I suppose one could draw a parallel with Life–perhaps an opposite effect.  Life does not come with a diagram, with colors and spaces all mapped out to fill in various stages of living skills.  Life evolves spontaneously, with guidance and influence–to be sure–but the finshed product (or perhaps I should better say the “work in progress” can not be set out in a diagram as can be a needlepoint picture.

The little red sweater…point of view

[DAY NINE, Writing 101 prompt.]

The day was warm and sunny, although the occasional breeze made the elderly woman glad that she had worn a light sweater over her faded bluejeans and tee shirt.  She wore a straw sun hat, with a big sunflower design on it.   She often sat in the park on nice days, watching squirrels, or kids, or people strolling along or walking fast with their heads down.    Today the woman had her bright geometric print knitting bag, and was working away at a patch of knitting that appeared to be about a foot square.

The woman noticed the couple walking slowly along on an adjacent path, and peered at them from under the brim of her hat.  She had not seen them before, the tall pleasant looking man with the aluminum walking cane, and the pretty, fairly small  woman wearing office-clothes and a small purse tucked up under her arm.  They appeared to be in the mid-30s, and both looked serious…not to say somber, not really sad either.  (She was also a writer, and kept her long habit of observing potential “characters” as she went about her daily activities.)

The man’s eyes filled with tears, which he quickly wiped away with his upper arm…holding the cane.  wow, where did that come from?  Something about that old lady with the bright red yarn…reminds me of a sweater Grandma knitted for me that year she stayed with us.  I was fascinated with the way her hands and the knitting needles worked together, and the way the big ball of yarn just seemed to work up into the smooth knitted fabric… like magic.   Grandma was the person I loved most in the world… I was just six at the time, and I was her only grandchild.  She used to say how much I meant to her, and how lucky she was to be blessed with a grandson.   Hmmm, funny how that struck me when I saw that woman.

The man brushed something from the corner of his eye, and laughed at himself.

The young woman also noticed the Knitting Lady, and the bright red needlework in her hand.  A sweater for a new grandchild…wonder why she chose red?  Oh that’s an odd thought, why not red?  The new baby would get several sweaters…yellow, maybe pink or blue.  It must be lovely to be a grandmother…once a woman is a mother that is the natural thing.  I know that I will never have a baby, let alone a grand-baby.    My chance at motherhood has come and gone…left on a battlefield in Iraq.  But I hate it when I think like that…my husband and my only love has returned to me.  I guess that little red sweater stirred my motherly instincts…

The young woman smiled to herself, and she and her husband continued on their way.

The Knitting lady finished another row of the swatch of red fabric attached to her knitting needles, and inspected the work, counting stitches forming the beginning  of the leg holes across the fabric.  Satisfied, she gathered her things, wound  the excess of the red yarn onto the ball, and inserted the ends of the needles into it to secure them for the trip home.

She needed to finish that little sweater before her sister arrived for the weekend.

Well this is the last time I am going to waste perfectly good yarn, and my time, on that little mutt.  “If you eat THIS sweater, Miss Prissy, you can just freeze!”

More about airports, and the people who love–or hate them

The most obnoxious seat-mate I ever encountered on an airplane, was all dressed up and carrying a briefcase. This man had apparently had a bad day, or an unproductive sales trip, for he was not happy when he arrived at his designated seat and found me sitting in the aisle seat next to his. He was annoyed to realize that he would have to climb over me to get into his seat by the window.

At about the same time that my seat partner arrived, a happy group of senior citizen types began to take their seats ahead of us, two of them directly in the row ahead. These people had been to Cancun, Mexico, where they had evidentally enjoyed the many and varied attractions of the Mexican tourist city, and were laden with souveniers.

They had a large piñata, shaped like a bird, in addition to a couple of plastic bags with store names on them.  In high spirits, they were creating a slight commotion stowing their bags and packages in the over-head compartment, and underneath the seats. With a lot of thumping and bumping of the seats, and hustle-bustle in general, the front neighbors were changing seats. They were talking to each other in animation, and calling to others in their travel group, who were getting into their seats in nearby rows. They were not particularly loud, just animated, as people are when having fun with people that they know.

My seat-mate waited in the aisle for a very short time while those ahead of us arranged themselves in their seats, fiddled with their seat-belts, adjusting the ceiling air-ducts. There was a moment of aggravation as the seats jiggled and thudded.   The man was sort of sighing in exasperation, and muttering loudly about the disturbance the revelers were creating.

I had intended from the beginning to offer to change seats with the guy in the suit. Usually it is immaterial to me if I sit by the window, as the novelty wears off as soon as the plane emerges from the cloud cover and obscures the view of the ground. I do enjoy watching the plane as it backs away from the gate, and the exhilarationasf the engines rev up for the lift-off.   Air travel is inherently exciting regardless of how many times I flew. I admit to wanting to appear cool and collected, and to match my air of nonchalance with the perceived sophistication of fellow passengers on a given flight.

Besides, I am usually either asleep, or engrossed in a novel by the time the plane actually leaves the terminal. So I am glad to switch seats with someone who prefers to sit in the aisle seat. especially someone with long legs to fold into the cramped area under the seat ahead.

Well the guy was so irritated by the efforts of the forward passengers to get themselves seated and buckled-in…nothing more than normal settling in….and especially not being able to fit his briefcase into the overhead mainly  because of the piñata.    As the man ahead turned to glance backward as he sat down, my seat-mate threw him an incensed angry look, and also gave the front seat a thump in irritation.

At this point I was still going to ask the guy if he wanted to switch seats, but before I had a chance he was proceeding to squeeze by me as I sat in the seat.  He banged the briefcase against my knee, and plopped into the seat next to the window.

Now I…always forgiving…STILL would have traded seats with him, but he slammed the window shade down.  Acting like an ass might be excuseable, but closing off the view was not something I could  forgive.

OK, idiot…sit there.

He huffed and puffed and sighed all the way to Cleveland.  And when we pulled up to the concourse I stood up and waited until all of the passengers in the back of the plane had passed by our row before I stepped into the aisle, and he had to wait while I struggled with my carry-on from the overhead.

<chuckle.>

I recognized the blue, blue eyes in a stranger

[Day 6, Characterization Exercise, WRITING 101.]

Note: this person may be fictious.

I was having some Mcnuggets and a chocolate shake, at a familiar fast-foods place where I had dined countless times before. It seemed odd that I had never before noticed the woman with the broom.

Knocking over the shake was accidental, a careless flick of the hand. It made a “flup” sound as the paper cup crashed to the floor, and sort of exploded like toothpaste, spreading in a mess on the floor. In a moment of quiet horror we both stared at the substance flowing onto the floor, its whipped cream and cherry floating out gently like an island.

As I sat there agape, the woman sprang into action. Abandoning her broom, which was useless against the icy goo, she dashed to the paper-napkin dispenser (over by the pop machine) and grabbed a handful. She deftly gathered up the spill, cleaning the floor as I sat there dumb-founded, trying to think of what to do.

The least I could do was to buy the woman a coffee. She sunk down, tired, across from me in the booth. She sighed deeply, as if she had just completed a demanding and complicated task.

AGGIE…her name tag read.

Getting over my embarrassment and fluster, I actually looked at her for the first time.
Recovering my usual aplomb, clever words escaped my lips:

“Is your name really Aggie?”

The woman, who explained that her real name was Agnes, which she actually preferred…but everyone called her Aggie. She always put up with it because that’s how it was.

I peered at her closely, observant as if I was creating her character. Her hair had evolved into a pale golden-rose color, with a good dash of heavy cream. Like the color of my cat…which is a good thing. She was a small woman, but tall at the same time, I thought. Let’s see… if I were called upon to describe her…I’d say she moved as if she were floating. Her voice was soft and slightly-accented, filled with adjectives and strange tones…yes, vocal tones. Her blue, blue eyes, like glistening glaciar ice melting in the deceptive Arctic sun seemed very familiar.

She reminded me somehow of a past time in my own life. Agnes (as I decided to call her,) had not always been a cleaner in a fast-food place, this was simply an old lady’s found-job that gave her a bit of cash for extras above her subsistence pension.

Aggie had traveled to places during her lifetime that had shaped her way of life, always what her mother had called a “free-spirit.” She followed her own trail, especially in the mountains, which she loved. She had known love, and what passed as love, “…and sex, which didn’t even pretend to be love,” she whispered shyly, with a little laugh.

Suddenly the blue eyes grew even clearer, brighter than the glistening blue of melting ice–eyes I knew well. (It struck me that this thought-description might be rather excessive, as I do tend toward purple prose as the critics call it, although some thoughts just need to be over-stated.) I am reminded of other blue, blue eyes that reside in my heart, bringing back memories.

The time and the tale were short. Aggie was on a break, after all, but in the present all of her past–and my own–came to light. Sometimes we can see ourselves reflected in a chance encounter with a stranger.

When leaving the restaurant I paused at the door, and looked back, but Agnes was nowhere to be seen.

The Deer in the Tree Garden.

More than likely no one really cares a mite, but I really need to write a note about the photo I have in my header of my blog Sometimes.  First, I admit that it was chosen because it was needed to have a sort of neutral photo for a new theme I was trying out.  (Or an old theme that was back in favor.)  I previously had a picture of some beautiful red Hibiscus flowers, but even I was getting tired of them..

This photo is cloudy for two reasons: it is shot through the less-than-pristine glass patio door; and in the rain.  The reason I grabbed my camera and hustled up some shots is…well, because it is a deer.  I love deer, and see them fairly often, but they are elusive…especially when in photo range.  This photo turned out fairly well in that it also features my tree garden, which I have discussed previously.

Deer always manage to sneak up and stand in the yard in some picturesque pose.  My deer photos usually leave something to be desired, such as lining up the deer so that there is a wind-chime-bug coverning the deer’s head.  Or it’s the rear end of the deer…not that white-tailed deer rear ends are not cute in and of themselves.

So when I peeked out the window and saw the deer standing by the full-blooming Rose-of-Sharon, with a “ok, let’s take the picture, lady…” attitude, I got it.

The point of this post is that in keeping with the “spruce-up-your-blog” campaign over at WordPress, I admit that mine needs a lot of work.

Speaking of sprucing-up, I hope that I’ve settled on a theme for awhile.  I am using… uh, let’s see… Bold Life theme… one which I flit back and forth to because I like the colors, the lay-out, and it just seems comfortable.     As I have said before, in the past two months I have changed fifteen times, many of them back and forth to Bold Life.  The problem I have with switching themes is that it left me having to drag-and-drop my widgets every time.  Yes, I know there is a simple way to do that, but I didn’t know it until just a couple of days ago.

So anyway, that is what I wanted to say about the deer header.  It remind me of a sort of water-color or blurry painting (not being a visual artist I wouldn’t know an impressionist painting from a cubic style, if there even IS such a thing.)   OK, so the stylized photo of the deer, the droopy wildflowers, and the soggy hanging Million-Bells plant, is more the result of poor photography skills.

Another thing, while the subject is up on screen…I am working on developing a writing work ethic in which I write every day.  No excuses.  The hazard here is that once the material starts flowing out of the brain, through the keyboard, onto the computer screen…well, let’s just say I get carried away easily.

Wouldn’t it be some kind of poetic justice if I were to LIMIT my writing time each day?

Ominous or obnoxious?

[DAY 5 — entry for Writing 101]

A note I found on a path in a crowded park, half buried in mud, almost invisible due to age.   It doesn’t say much of anything, but it sends chills down my spine.  The meaning is ambiguous.  Suspicious person that I am, I decide that the best way to make the note known to its intended recipient–is to publish it in my blog.

CALL ME TODAY — OR PAY

.

Not lost, not forgotten…just on another page.

[WRITING 101–DAY FOUR:  Something that I had once but lost.]

We are back in the days of the sailing ships powered by great billowing canvas panels,  dependent on wind power. I am not sure of the year, or even the type of sailing vessel.  It may have been a great Clipper Ship, or a fast-treacherous slaver, or a grand warship complete with cannons.  Maybe it was one of those Egyptian ships run by man-power, rowers whose jobs depended on their keeping rhythm, and almost super-human strength and durability.

But no, my sense of adventure and grandeur is getting ahead of me here, and in truth I believe the ship that I am on is actually a medium-size fishing vessel.  The chances are my knowledge of fishing and shipping is  limited by lack of years…I’m only  15.   Except for basic techniques and words of caution from my father and uncles, my brothers and I are learning the fishing trade step by step.   I have only recently graduated to get a job on a real fishing boat…a big one, three masts.

We have shipped out, and it is very exciting.   Mother was trying hard not to cry, but she is a fisherman’s wife and also the daughter of a man who made the family living working at sea on the ships…she is fully aware of the rewards, and dangers, of fishing and sailing. I was lucky to get a job as a deck hand, and since I’m just beginning my life’s work on the sea, there is a lot to learn.  For now my duties are simple…helping cook, running around with orders or supplies, fetching water, and generally keeping my mouth shut and do what I’m told.  That isn’t easy for me, but I realize that obedience and a good attitude and work ethic is mandatory for my future success.   So I am anxious to prove myself to be a “good all-around hand” so that I can advance to better jobs on the ships.

SIX MONTHS LATER, off the coast of England.

As I have been trying to keep up with my journals (actually we call them “logs, “like the captain does) it has been necessary for me to also keep studying my writing and reading lessons, which is a condition of my employment…insisted on by Mother.   Most of the men working on the ship as deckhands and sailors have limited educations, and have worked their way up through the ranks from their own “go-fer” status as young boys.  Some of them tell me that I should study and learn all that I can, but others tell me that having my nose in books is a waste of time.

The ocean waves have been choppy lately, and dark clouds gather where there should be blue skies and calm seas.  The Captain has ordered us to head back to port, so we are busy watching the wind and minding the sails and making sure that the water barrels and other supplies are held fast with great ropes.  The nets have been hoisted into place.   The good fishing time and conditions are growing less frequent, and safety rules in place .  The safest and most secure plan is to get off of the ocean and into safe harbor.

We are now heading into increasingly heavy waves, and the dark  clouds are low in the sky, removing any line of horizon between the sea and the sky.  The waves are deafening, twice as high as the ship on one side, water slopping onto the deck on the other.   The warning bells are sounding, and I can hear men shouting .  The massive sails have been lowered and secured to their masts.

I hear someone shout my name… “Boy! Climb!”

I am holding on to whatever I can, gripping the nearest mast as tightly as I can.  I can see the water deepening onto the deck, and I begin to climb.       Water reaches my ankles,  as I climb higher.   I cannot see any of the other men on the ship, only the whipping waves threatening to engulf the ship.  I am near the top of the mast–there is no place else to go.

But wait…Mother is there, holding out her hand…

Stream-of-consciousness…proceed at yer own risk

[DAY THREE prompt for Writing 101.]

Note: this is my offering for this assignment, which is to write for at least 15 minutes non-stop, without thinking much about where it is going or where it has been.  This is how my brain works, in compartmentalized tid-bits of life.  Normally I give the post at least a look-see to try to pick up the dumbest errors and/or a stab at continuity.  Warts and typos and all.. WYSIWYG, “what you see is what you get,” no frills or whistles.

This is also my commitment to develop a better writing habit…since I call myself a Writer.:-)

Wow, my three favorite songs in my whole life?   I actually wrote a blog post on this subject a few weeks ago, but never published it.  For one thing it is not easy to narrow down eight decades of music into one three-song package.   I can narrow it down to three vinyl long-play albums.

When in Germany back in the late 1950s we listened to Armed Forces Radio or Network or whatever it was.   There was a disc jockey who had a radio show which signed off with the words: “If  the Lord’s willing and the creek don’t rise, I’ll be back tomorrow morning at 6:05.”   Red Jones was his name, Sergeant Red Jones.  He played the latest hits from back in the states every morning after the 6 a.m. news.

I have always been obsessive about music, as well as anything else, and I had three or four basic records (yes they were 33 1/3 rpm, vinyl.    The three I played the most were the opera “Carmen,” “Johnny Horton,” and, “In a Persian Market,” by David Carroll and orchestra.   We also played other music, but those are the three that stand out.  (Sgt.  Jones never played any of them on air to my knowledge.)

I had grown to love the music of Bizet’s opera, Carmen.  I had seen the movie Carmen Jones, starring Dorothy Dandridge and Harry Belafonte, with Pearl Bailey and other greats I can’t think of right now.   The record version of Carmen that I had was performed by I forget now what orchestra it was…and featured only music, no words.  (I wasn’t THAT classy.)  I can still hum most of the opera, but the words are not known…for one thing it was in Spanish and I would not study Spanish for another thirty years.  Anyway… Johnny Horton did all those “American Patriot” songs…noteably “The Battle of New Orleans,” “Sink the Bismarck,” “You marched all the Way Johnny Reb,”  and the sad tale of the horse that was killed at Little Big Horn with Custer.  Those songs still bring a tear to my eyes.  You do not want to hear me sing any of them…unless you are one of my cats, who will come from all over the house at the first note.

It was these songs that originally sparked my interest and/or fascination in the United States Civil War, the German Navy, General Andrew Jackson, and Persia.   “In a Persian Market” was a favorite of mine, and still brings up visions of camels walking across the desert and tents and Arabs and all that.  The album was “Percussion Orientale.”

I still have those original albums.   I copied them once on cassette tapes with poor results.  I think they are available on CD.

[my DAY THREE prompt, writing stream-of-consciousness for non-stop 15 minutes.]  one interruption…a computer calling to ask if I needed business capital… I was rude to the computer as I hung up.