2021 – Year End Roundup & Goals

01. January 2022 · Comments Off on 2021 – Year End Roundup & Goals · Categories: Domestic, Random Book and Media Musings

Well, upon looking at last year’s roundup of goals reached, and goals to reach – I haven’t done too shabbily at all. Of course no big-name producer for streaming entertainment has made a serious (or even an unserious bid) to make the Adelsverein sequence, or the Luna City series into a mini-series – but hey, I live in hope. What’s a dream for, anyway?

Anyway; the windows, sliding door between the dining room and the Sumptuous Catio and French door for the front bedroom were all done and dusted early in the year, just before the great Texas Snowmagedden of 2021 descended upon us, and just in the nick of time, too. The Daughter Unit and I weathered through, just fine, since it never got cold enough in the newly-re-sided and insulated house to freeze anything of note.

The Chicken Abode was also done, and stocked with four laying hens, and it all worked very nicely, right up until the tragic day when something vicious got into the back yard and slaughtered two hens outright and mauled a third so severely that she died two days later. The fourth hen died around midsummer, cause unknown, and Larry Bird the rooster also, but from old age. I don’t want to restock the coop until spring, when Wee Jamie the miracle grandson, is a little bit older, and I have the time to spare from tending to him, while my daughter begins on making her fortune as a licensed real estate agent.

Basically, all the previously established goals for maintenance of the house itself have been achieved. Now the only remaining project is to finish paying for said projects: the windows, the siding and paint, and for an emergency fix to the HVAC system incurred the week that Wee Jamie was born. Fortunately, I have a couple of clients for publishing assistance, which will, with luck, help with that. The only remaining project that I have in relation to that is to get the den floor done in the same high-end vinyl flooring which has gone into one room and the hallway so far, and pay Roman the Neighborhood Handy Guy to do the work. I also want to be able to afford a nice pneumatic nail gun, so I can do certain carpentry stuff myself and not have to keep borrowing Roman TNHG’s compressor and nail gun.

New projects for this year:

1 – run a short length of tall fence with a gate in it from the side of the garage to the brick-faced pillar which encloses my next-door neighbor’s yard, to make a small private patio, which opens through the new French door from the front bedroom. I plan to paint the whole fence and gate white, to match the trim on the house. Eventually, when my daughter has had a good few years in real estate and moved out to her own establishment, this room will become my office and library.

2 – renew the fence and gate on the opposite side, and paint it white to match – basically, a straight façade of fence, garage door, fence across the front of the house, keeping all but two small areas on either side of the driveway private and secure. Maybe install electric porch lights on both sides.

3 – if sufficient addition income from royalties and the Teeny Publishing Bidness permits, see to redoing the back fence, which is in truly parlous condition. No, I don’t think I can reuse the original fence palings, one more time, although at the rate that costs for them are going up, I might have a good try at it. Wood is wood, and I kind of like the weathered look.

Alas – all this work for the Teeny Publishing Bidness means that writing Luna City 11 is put off until mid-spring, and the Civil War novel, That Fateful Lightning (which is half-done at the moment) is also put off until I can submerge myself in Civil War campaign and medical trivia and write the second half; full of drama, battles, blasted hopes, showers of half-inch sized lead ammunition, and hope for a better world when the war is won. Hopes that are seasoned with despair and tragedy, for wasn’t it always thus?

Consider a Fair Warning

28. December 2021 · Comments Off on Consider a Fair Warning · Categories: Random Book and Media Musings

OK, prospective Facebook and/or other social media prospective and aspirational friends, those who have occasionally favored me with ‘friend’ requests, because other friends/acquaintances of mine have friended you, most usually in trusting error … let me bluntly explain why I have not favored you with acceptance of your kind offer, or with replies to your messages. I am a writer, a scribbler of historical fiction and contemporary rural comedy – I am emphatically not a rock star, a movie actress, or filthy rich. As a collector of fans for such works of fiction which I produce, I am not interested in slavish adoration, merely a courteous and mutual exchange of good will and friendly if somewhat remote interest in each other’s lives, loves, interests and hobbies.

This goes double for other writers – Hi there, we share the same addiction to telling stories, and anxiously checking on our sales rank and our hopefully generous royalties in hopes of turning a hobby into a profession. Nice to know ya! (No, I don’t want to know the name of your agent, or your publisher. I moved beyond playing the trad-pubbed game about fifteen years ago.)

If you are a male of certain years, claiming to have some high-powered job, like a surgeon or a serving military officer of somewhat elevated rank, list on your profile that you are divorced, widowed or otherwise single and yet have no more than three or four pictures on your profile, including one of you with a cute animal, or sailboarding, or your graduation from some high-end uni, I am most emphatically not interested. Especially if;

– there are only those three or four pictures.

– you claim to be currently in some exotic locale like … Doha. Syria. Boston. Or until late this year, Afghanistan. Look, guys; I was born at night, but it wasn’t last night.

– if the picture includes you, or someone you represent to be you, clad in a military uniform with a nametag or patch on it, and that name does not match the so-called name on your profile …this merits an automatic delete. In the military that I used to belong to, not the fantasy one apparently inhabited by romance scammers, we used to call this ‘attention to detail.’ Lack of it can occasionally be fatal.

As an aside – general officers usually have no leisure time to screw around with their social media profiles or with pitching woo to unknown single ladies of a certain age. Such gentlemen might have a lot of pictures of themselves out there on the ‘net, which can provide fodder for the occasional romance scammer, which is why such characters show up so often among my friend requests. I understand that male models with a large portfolio online frequently have their pictures hijacked for the same purpose.

– there is a certain embarrassing lack of familiarity with Western naming conventions which often reveals itself in such invitations. I understand this kind of thing can be confusing to Third Worlders with radically different naming conventions. But a pitch for friend status with a radically unsuitable name, like a surname for a given name or vice versa … oh, sorry – gong! Not going to get specific with examples, as I don’t want these a-holes to sharpen their game.

– finally, addressing me as ‘dear’ or with any other terms of affection on bare minimal acquaintance through the medium of a private message through FB will earn an automatic banishment.

Consider yourself to have been warned – respectfully submitted,

Celia Hayes

 

 

 

For Christmas

24. December 2021 · Comments Off on For Christmas · Categories: Random Book and Media Musings

(A relevant seasonal excerpt from my World War II novel, My Dear Cousin, which was completed and released last year at about this time. Part of the narrative is in letters, between two cousins; Vennie is an Army nurse serving in North Africa and Europe, Peg the wife of a Far East POW, waiting out the war in Australia, wondering for years if her husband is still alive.) The description of this 1942 Christmas holiday celebration in a military hospital was taken from this book.

Letter from Vennie to Peg, dated 26 December 1942, Postmarked APO NY, headed Arzew, Algiers

My dear Cuz:

We had our Christmas here in Algeria at the hospital and it was more beautiful and moving than I can describe. I should set the scene of it for you; the main hospital building has a central entrance hall across a small courtyard, with a wide staircase which goes halfway up the back wall with a dozen wide steps – there is a generous landing, from which two flights of narrower stairs go up along the wall to the second level. When I first arrived at this place, riding in the back of a jeep, crammed in with seven others, our legs hanging out every which way – I did not see this. It was as dark as a pit, and every inch of the floor of this hall was covered with stretchers of wounded. But as we took control of the city and calm and order returned. With hard work and dedication, our people have turned this back into a place of order and healing.

The wards are clean and airy, and the operating theater once again fully equipped with all the proper gear, brought up from the Army transports in the harbor. Our patients have clean linens and white sheets – blankets too, against the cold. You would not believe how cold North Africa is at night, during the winter!

We had such fun planning and creating a wonderful Christmas. It means so much to the men, and to us, so far away from home, and in a foreign and unfamiliar land. The comfortable rituals seem so much more meaningful. I believe that for the rest of my life I will remember this particular Christmas with much more clarity than those of my childhood, which seemed to all blend into one pleasant holiday blur, with not much to make any one of them stand out, not even the Christmases when I journeyed home to the ranch from Galveston.

Besides the candy that we made in the hospital kitchen – at least four hundred pounds of it! – the Red Cross director in Oran produced quantities of more hard candy, packets of cigarettes and small gifts for this enterprise, enough to fill every single stocking; all seven hundred of them! Our enlisted corpsmen at Arzew came up with tinsel slivered from the foil that X-ray plates come wrapped in, and many ornaments for the Christmas tree cut from empty tin plasma containers. A party among the Army engineers organizing the harbor went out into the country and cut a tall fir tree for us, which we put in the hospital foyer in a bucket of gravel and sand, just as we used to do at home. A sergeant among our patients (recovering nicely from an abdominal wound) was an art teacher in his previous life. He was busy cutting and folding heavy paper, and painting them with brushes and paint procured through the Red Cross (again, all honors to the director in Oran who found these items for us) to appear like lighted candles, pinecones, branches of evergreens, holly berries and leaves, and ornate bows and placards of Christmas greetings, to make garlands to adorn the lobby.

On the landing – which you must picture as being twelve steps up from the lobby floor – we had a small table, draped in white sheets, with more white sheets hung against the walls above, and a large cardboard cross, four feet tall, onto which we had hand-sewn purple bougainvillea blossoms was hung above it. (Purple was the proper color for the Christmas rites, so Muriel tells me. She would know, as she is quite devout.) The corpsmen had contrived a pair of elaborate candelabras, and filled them with wax tapers, and brought in some small palm trees planted in pots on either side of the altar, as well as two large vases filled with flowers behind the candelabras.

It was magnificent. Our Catholic chaplain, Father Powers began saying a solemn Christmas mass at midnight, at the foot of the altar. Any who wanted to attend were welcome. We had litter patients at the front, and ambulatory patients crowded in with the nurses and surgeons behind them. The choir of men – and they were all Catholic, Protestant and Jew together – began singing “Silent Night”. It was all so beautiful and deeply moving, Peg! I simply cannot describe to you how lovely it was. Although I am not Catholic and only indifferently Christian.

We had a small party afterwards, hosted by we nurses – with cookies and cocoa and then to our various beds. But in the morning, on Christmas morning, Captain Ro (Romanesco, our unit dentist) dressed in the Santa costume which we had made for him, of the same fabric that all of the Christmas stockings were sewn, and went around to all the wards, distributing Christmas stockings stuffed full of gifts: the candy, cigarettes and etc. I can’t even begin to express how happy the men were to receive these simple presents, or how thrilled we were, to observe their happiness. In the larger sense, we can really do so little for them, for those who have received crippling wounds, wounds which I fear may shorten many lives, or at least make life a challenge for them. But they were all so happy with their presents – as if they were all small boys, receiving the one thing that they most desired in all the world.

This simple holiday in a foreign land, in time of war, Peg – it all made it worthwhile to me.

All my love, to you and yours.

Vennie

Craft Market Weekend

16. November 2021 · Comments Off on Craft Market Weekend · Categories: Domestic, Random Book and Media Musings

My daughter and I, accompanied by a selection of stock, Wee Jamie in his stroller, and a full assortment in a cooler bag of our lunches and his bottles on ice, spent all day last Saturday at a craft fair in Beautiful Downtown Bulverde, at the senior center there. Which is disconcertingly under the flight approach of a tiny airfield just down the road; at odd times all day, a small single-engine aircraft road overhead just above tree-top level, the shadow of it skating over the treetops and meadow. My daughter had a selection of her origami earrings, most of it stock created early last year. What with the advent of Wee Jamie, who will be six months old this month, and her interests in developing a career in real-estate, this is a hobby which she will have to set aside for a time. She also had a selection of wood-burned oversized Christmas ornaments, which all went to one purchaser who wanted them for an outdoor Christmas tree display, and a collection of small needle-felted seasonal ornaments which, alas, did not sell. We were kind of discouraged because of this. Maybe next year. We worry about what hell the retail economy will present to us, by next year. We had thought that shoppers at the craft fair would be interested in spending their money with local small crafters, what with all the ships stuck off-shore, loaded with crappy consumer goods from China for the holiday market season. We’ll see what happens with post-market sales – there is always a bump-up after a market event.

I had two bins of American Girl doll-clothes and costumes, which were much admired, but didn’t sell as well as they have in the past. At least I covered my half of the table fee and then a bit, which is always reassuring. Our only event the rest of the year will be for my books, at Miss Ruby’s Author Corral in Goliad, the first Saturday in December. My daughter is looking forward to taking Wee Jamie to see Santa, although posing for a picture in the saddle of a longhorn steer may be a little too much to expect of an infant who will be only seven months old when he has his encounter with the Guy In the Red Suit Who Drives a Team of Reindeer And Delivers Gifts to Good Children on Christmas Eve.

On the other hand, Wee Jamie was both much admired for his baby cuteness, and for his being absolutely good throughout. He napped in the stroller, didn’t fuss, consumed two bottles … and was so exhausted by effort of being cute for the entire day that he slept that night from about six PM until past nine on Sunday morning. Wee Jamie is coming along, in his development. I insist that there is nothing to worry about, in missing some of the development benchmarks or hitting them late, which is the pediatrician’s concern. It is my adamant belief that he is about a month behind the expectations because he is a boy, stubborn and reluctant to develop, and another month because he was delivered three weeks before full term, at barely five pounds and a bit. He smiles for my daughter and I, a smile which is all over his face, he is of late entranced with toys which rattle, make crunchy sounds, and musical notes, he has discovered and been entranced by his fingers and hands, and his reflection in one of the toy units. He rocks back and forth from side to side, when laid on my daughter’s bed. Turning over is nearly within his grasp, we think – and he can almost sit up unaided for almost a minute at a time. He also seems to enjoy watching videos, especially the series Shaun the Sheep. He sleeps mostly through the night, after his 5 PM bath, and the bottle which follows – which is a great relief to both of us.

Reprise Post: Thoughts on a Centenary

11. November 2021 · 2 comments · Categories: Memoir, Random Book and Media Musings

There is a lovely little classical piece by Maurice Ravel – Le Tombeau de Couperin, composed shortly after the end of the war, five of the six movements dedicated to the memory of an individual, and one for a pair of brothers, all close friends of the composer, every one of them fallen in a war of such ghastliness that it not only put paid to a century of optimistic progress, but barely twenty years later it birthed another and hardly less ghastly war. Maurice Ravel himself was over-age, under-tall and not in the most robust of health, but such was the sense of national emergency that he volunteered for the military anyway, eventually serving as a driver – frequently under fire and in danger. Not the usual place to find one of France’s contemporarily-famous composers, but they did things differently at the end of the 19th Century and heading all wide-eyed and optimistic into the 20th. Citizens of the intellectual and artistic ilk were not ashamed of their country, or feel obliged to apologize for a patriotic attachment, or make a show of sullen ingratitude for having been favored by the public in displaying their talents.

The war whose casualties Ravel memorialized in that way ended exactly a hundred years ago today; the eleventh month, eleventh day, eleventh hour. It seems now to have been unimaginably distant at this point. The soldiers who fought in it for every nation and yet managed by pluck and luck to survive are all gone now … but like a long-healed wound, that war left horrific scars both physical and psychic. Woodlands and meadows the length of the Western Front across Belgium and France to this day are still marked by trenchworks, crumbling fortifications, the soil still poisoned by chemicals. All across Europe, Great Britain, Canada, Australia, Germany, what remained of Austria-Hungary – and the US, to a lesser extent – the smallest villages and the largest cities alike have memorials. Sometimes they are in odd corners, most often in a prominent place, with engraved tablets of names; the most notable were usually designed by the architectural great and good, standing on or near the battlefields themselves. The smallest memorials are sometimes the most moving – especially when the same handful of names appear. Everyone in this tiny village would have known this man or that, not just the immediate family and friends. This man, his neighbor, the boy who polished boots or delivered the mail; this and this, a hundred and a thousand times over. When those memorial monuments were first put up, the loss of the men – and sometimes of women – was a raw and savage grief. The observer picks up immediately on the sense of loss, the grief, the futile attempt to make a sense out of the cruelty visited on that community; they were here, they were of value, and now they are gone! The only thing we can do is to remember them.

The political and psychic scars from the First World War, I think, have proved to be the deepest, and the longest-lasting. We are still dealing politically with the fall-out and the razor-edged shards of broken empires. The Austro-Hungarian empire splintered into component nations; Russia replaced the Romanovs and old ruling nobility with an even more vicious ruling class, the Ottoman Empire both splintered geographically, replacing the old inefficient Sultanate with an equally inefficient and/or vicious assortment of local ruling talent. Germany, wracked in defeat, replaced their supreme ruler serially with inefficient democracy and then crowned that debacle with Hitler, suffering another round of defeat and division. France – gutted of a generation of able, healthy and patriotic young men, required for the continuance of a stable society, those friends whom Ravel honored and mourned in his composition. Great Britain and her far-flung Empire, also gutted of men and the supreme societal self-confidence required to maintain that Empire, fell apart on a slower timetable. Documented in small and large ways in western literature and in even popular contemporary genre novels, the war marked a turning, a vast gulf, a shattering of the old, 19th Century optimism, and the certainty that things were bound – with the aid of science and industry – to only get better and better for that part of the world which thought of itself as ‘civilized.’ To the characters created for a mass audience by Agatha Christie, Dorothy Sayers and any number of others – there seems in retrospect to be a “before” and an “after” to the war, which slashed a sharp dividing line across the cultural landscape; skirts were shorter, morals looser, music louder and more discordant, politics more rancorous, manners coarsened and buildings uglier. The shock and the loss of certainty in so much which had once been thought solid, stable, eternal … the reverberations when the guns finally fell silent on that day are still rippling across our consciousness, even when we don’t quite know why.

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