(Talk of the Town photos provided) Above and below, Susie's happy memories of Christmas morning as a child growing up in Columbia City.

Thanks so much for following these columns, thoughts, and blogs
(And joining me in loving both kitty cats and dogs!)
How fun and fine it is to remember happy times,
Sharing moments of small town life in prose or in rhymes.
 
Memories flood into minds via our willing hearts;
One leads to another in sequential fits and starts.
Enjoyment of each other and old-timey places
Creates mental photographs of treasured, dear faces.
 
Continuation of past reflections I do vow --
Since yesterday’s much easier to recall than NOW!
Misplaced packages, tape, ribbons, car keys and glasses –
All forgiven because old age happens!  Time passes!
 
Fortunate are we cuz Jennifer keeps us informed,
Our intellects humming, and each reader soothed and warmed.
“Talk of the Town” provides a grand opportunity
To revive spirits -- and pride in our community!
 
Merry Christmas and Happy 2012, friends!  You are dolls!
 
Susie Duncan Sexton

Headed toward an iPADDED cell --
Carly Simon’s VAIN fresh new HELL!
Intervention’s around the bend.
Let’s admit defeat, friend to friend.
Facing each other in real time,
Oh, abandon the “pantomime”!
Technology’s fun and quicker,
But we’re too drunk on THIS liquor?

All that I ever required of a clunky old manual typewriter and its keyboard?  Non-sticking keys, occasional fresh ribbons wound tightly enough yet a tad loosey-goosey, the capability to shift/capitalize and italicize or employ quotation marks to highlight -- as per stage directions -- for perhaps later reading the finished result aloud, ease of indenting, and a smooth carriage return accompanied by a zinging sound effect, etc., etc. and so forth. 
 
No computer geek, communication -- via “floating anxiety” language transformed into permanent print -- satisfies my psyche to the maximum.  Computer equals typewriter in my limited world.  I ask nothing more. 
 
Wait!  Googling’s magic. I concede that miracle of referencing the entire world, and its contents thereof, to be phenomenal. Wiki you!  Wiki me!  May bulky, dusty, gilded, out-dated encyclopedia volumes, A through Z, rest in peace or live on as collector items.
 
However, in spite of myself, I currently claim membership in imaginary humanity via Facebook’s Goodreads, Linked-In, Blocked-Out, Up Yours, Back Off, Network Me a Little Higher and More to the Left, Kindle Kuddling, Nook Nonsense, and Discounted or Buy One Get One Free Items No One Needs or Wants, as well as On-Line Obits ‘N Stuff (leave a message for the deceased).
 
You and I can access cyber-life through stationary, awkward, overly wired-up PCs (old hat by now), cell phones if top o’ the line, iPods, iPads, Blackberries, teensy tiny hand-held devices, or the entire surfaces of coffee-tables. 
 
Probably, soon we only need to flail our hands through the air to conjure up atlases, strings of movies, any magazines still in existence, chess boards, bridge partners -- then simply scooch our motions up, down, right, left, to move onward and upward and into or outta there.  Maybe, someday, we’ll wave our arms at our over-priced electric vehicles (Automobiles, the bane of mankind!) which will tool driverlessly all over the roads, then load their trunks with groceries (more swooshing of limbs), OR consume – simply by pointing -- virtual food photographs peering enticingly up as mouth-watering succulent delights hovering upon the kitchen table top.  (Super diet plan!)
 
When a seasoned Linked-In, affectedly professional, Mr. Jolly aloofly demands that I justify my fresh existence on said site, I long to reply to the stuffy part-time comic book illustrator. ”Me?  Are you joshing?  I am over-qualified and wearing an American flag motif Jantzen bathing suit equipped with a cantilevered brassiere effect, am ‘spike-heel-booted’ up to my outrageously slender knees, and go nowhere without a huge star poised dead-center atop my tiara which itself perches upon a grandly bluish-raven, overly-teased coiffure.  Now, sir, do you wish to ‘friend’ me – or not?  Together, through teamwork, the two of us might go very far (out!)”  An offer no grown man feverishly churning out literary masterpieces, for mass consumption by kids with more money than sense, ought to refuse.
 
Daily/nightly recommended “reads” crawl and often sprint onto my notifications. However repetitiously and seductively their cover-art advertises “BUY ME…DOWNLOAD NOW”, at my age … nude folks enjoying their water-color status, while wrapped tightly about one another, only inspire giggles or yawns.  One exception – “What to Do with a Naked Leprechaun” very nearly earned a PayPal nod from this bookworm.  “Deviant Devil!  Hades Squad.” and “Knight of Passion” and “Zebra Wore Red Stockings” as well as “Victorian Erotic Romance Trilogy” or “Wicked Missions” may be other titles to consider.  Having recently gloried in the publication of my first E-Book, I should investigate adjustment of both my writing style and choices of topics should I ever contribute a second “novel-approach” to this zany, one-note world. Salability at all costs – the bottom line!  The VERY bottom.
 
Carly Simon’s infectious musical composition YOU’RE SO VAIN never fails to transport me into Henry Mancini’s “dreamy Dreamsville “-- her necessary message coordinated with that perkiest of finger-snapping beats.  Were I ever fortunate enough to enjoy a steaming, aromatic cup of latte with the composer, relaxing at a Martha’s Vineyard sidewalk bistro, I’d lean pronouncedly forward to examine whether or not “clouds”  float within …  or maybe instead seriously clot …  her java.  “Clouds in (her) coffee…clouds in (her) coffee…”  Until that day, her mystifying phrase continues to replay between my ears each time I re-visit those totally unrealistic, role-playing cyber-sites-links with a click of my mouse or whenever I devise my own inventive, directive phrase to stimulate my search engine in order to escape this world.
 
Five syllables now with suggested emphasis on each fourth syllable, almost waltzy-schmaltzy…altogether (Humming’s helpful to the tune of CLOUDS IN MY COFFEE)…”and uh-one and uh-two”!  Get ready!  Get set!  Go!
 
Head-hunting’s silly!  Net-working’s nutty!  Hacking’s a booger!  Bragging’s so pointless!  “Act” like we DO care!  Find songs on YouTube!  Enter this contest!  Send a donation!  Praying for you now!  No-ti-fi-ca-tions!  Pills on our bureaus!  Hide from maniacs!  Posts in our daydreams!  Blogs in our nightmares!  Twiddle Blackberry!  Obsessed with status(-es)!  Wrinkles in his shirts!  Forget the laundry!   Boycott telephones!  Notes on our dashboards!  Cupboards seem quite bare!  Clean sheets—what are those?  Always, we’ll eat out!  Aches in our back-sides!  Admit addiction!  Numbness in both feet!  Typos all over!  “You’ve reached your limit!”  Stalkers on my page!  Copy ‘n paste THAT!  Buy more equipment!  Facebook dominates!  Shut off devices!  Remember real life?  Good-bye to all strife!  New day is dawning!  Sun’s in its Heaven!
“All’s right with the world!”  (from “Pippa Passes” by Robert Browning, 1841)

(Talk of the Town photo and image provided) 

By Susie Duncan Sexton

Katy Keene & K. O. Kelly. Brenda Star & that eye-patched Arrow Collar type guy, answering to Basil St. John. Clark Kent & Lois Lane, Nancy Drew & a girl-friend named George, Eloise & her turtle Skipperdee, Little Iodine & her nuttiness, Nancy & Sluggo, Mutt & Jeff, Archie & Veronica & Betty – “say ‘Hello’ to my little inky friends!”

ARGHHHH!  BLEACH!  …and do my tonsils show?  No other pulpy paper heroines informed me as beautifully and dutifully as did Little Lulu cavorting through my comic book collection which I perused repetitively.  Oh, I still do check in occasionally with the little spunky imp, via a slick anthology series.  Her friend Tubby seemed harmless, pretty bratty, and clueless in the 50s.   Little did I know that he needed to speak up more although not in ornery argumentativeness but rather in fair-minded teamwork with that short little asexual girl-person named LULU!
 
HINTS FROM HELOISE?  NO WAY!
 
Herein, LULU’S LITTLE LIFE LESSONS:
 
Chivalrous Role Models --
 
Actor Ossie Davis won my heart forever in the early 80s when he rather brashly scolded an IPFW audience, during BLACK HISTORY MONTH, for neglecting to extend a formal invitation to his Academy Award winning wife, Ruby Dee.  Since, the exquisite actress did not receive her own gracious inclusive “invite”, she remained at home in California (or New York) that evening.  Ha!  I personally congratulated him for his gentlemanly spunk, shaking his hand and requesting an autograph post-lecture.
 
Henry Fonda enthusiastically supported his politically active, gorgeous daughter Jane Fonda in a huge public forum (revisiting the Academy Awards Pageant I am) with the phrase, “I think she’s perfect!”
 
Thirty Rock’s Alec Baldwin, back when happily married, would screech his automobile to a halt on L. A. freeways, in the midst of downpours, to rescue stray dogs and cats from heavy traffic to gain points with animal activist wife Kim Basinger.
 
Actor Jeremy Irons could not have been more correct when he stated that marriage is a bold yet fragile commitment which far too many humans on the outside peck away at, in order to divide and conquer?   Why?  Why?  Why?
 
Societal Road-Blocks to Sheer Bliss --
 
A few of my friends understand that the misconception that males are quietly THOUGHTful while females should be labeled as “opinionated” sucks!
 
Other acquaintances, few but astute, realize that the concept of “the Mister” -- as patriarchal god -- should be relegated to some weathered old timeline chart, categorized under the heading of … the Era of B.C.  The Neolithic Epoch!
 
Vulgar humor and filthy jokes at the expense of females should be swallowed prior to expulsion as hot air.
 
Beetle Bailey ought never have been syndicated.
 
Stag functions should advertise that Pathetic Paranoia, Immobilizing Insecurity, and Nutsoid Bonding all will be gathered in agonizingly time-warped group attendance inside a FOR MEN ONLY boozy bar or on some hack-happy golf course or at a staged political rally or around a mind-numbingly monotonous race-track.
 
Arched eyebrows, barked commands, sighing for effect, snide put-downs, rolling eyeballs, cussing, condescension – in conjunction with bashing the gentler gender -- rated spankings in real time. When these miming/”blowing off” activities remain past puberty,…why, say HELLO to … certain, obvious barometers indicating that spoiled boy brats failed to mature beyond age eleven.
 
“Nagging” emerged as an invented word meaning “somebody” did not listen the first 27 times “somebody else” stated a FACT or requested a tiny favor, such as painting the house’s entire exterior or installing a new kitchen sink.
 
Escaping both conversation and meaningful engagement by retreating to another part of the house or yard, or another geographical location altogether, should have been squelched in children (by our mamas who should not have been precursors of Jean Stapleton’s intimidated portrayals and our Daddies who ought to have been ashamed to behave like Archie Bunker), laying the groundwork for future bliss and harmony and communication skills for their eventually hitched progeny.
 
PMS, a marketing ploy manufactured by some MAD MAN, cannot hold a candle to 50 mood swings FELT when a curvaceous doll in a skimpy sun-dress purposely wiggles past a pathetic cluster of mis-directed males trying HARD to impress…each other!  Any time of the damned month…daily as a matter of fact.
 
Daring Deductions --
 
Attempting to function in this society as thinking, caring, participatory human beings too often could be compared to navigating land mines, as every third person appears never ever to have comprehended that people are people, regardless of whatever gender stereotypes far too many of us are too lazy or stubborn to shed or abandon.
 
Being a lady, I relate to the idea of Feminism yet yearn for the day when that word evaporates into thin air because eventually we shall blend in as human beings who neither dress provocatively nor disguise our thinking processes in order to meet expectations of shallow popularity’s rules and regulations.  Dorothy Parker’s memorable line lamenting that “men don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses” might cease to be quoted ever again…too quaint and archaic and no longer relative?
 
Lulu’s physical description and impact upon civilization--
 
A squatty little shapeless girl in a trapezoidal red dress who bustled about and sometimes whined and appeared unfortunately plagued with an inky brown naturally cork-screwed hair-do and an upturned “^”where her nose should be.  Under-developed as a person and stuck in time, she seemed headed always toward what she agitatedly and impatiently yet longingly referred to as the status of  “human bean” and remains THE prototype of Lily Tomlin’s “Edith Ann” who sobbed:  “I am NOT bossy—it’s just that my ideas IS better!”
 
Gloria Steinem, Marlo Thomas, Betty Friedan, Carly Simon, Bella Abzug, Kathy Griffin, Madonna, and even Germaine Greer probably plopped down upon their canopied, frilly beds, tummies downward, elbows bent, tiny hands holding LITTLE LULU comic books, too.  Maybeeeeee, Ossie, Jeremy, Alec and “Hank” also snuck a peek at the little determined munchkin when nobody was looking?  She should be required reading for bunches of people I have known and continue to run smack into or “up against” occasionally!  YECH!
 
Advice --
 
(For further instruction and inspiration, “google” LITTLE LULU!  ;D)
 
Bibliography –
 
Every Little Lulu comic book ever published and bought at the corner drugstore, while handing over either a dime or a quarter at a pop, from 1951-1956.  (The series enjoyed lengthy syndication from 1950 through 1969.) Hallelujah!   (Foot-notes include references to Lulu’s tiny ticky-tacky bungalow/ranchy type house setting back from a very flat front sidewalk, Ol’ Hazel the sea-witch who lurked beneath a an oval rag rug in Lulu’s bedroom, Tubby’s sailor hat??????????, and frequent bee stings and bumps on the head which called for special cosmetic effects from the artist’s brush.)

(Talk of the Town photo provided) An quiet moment with Roy and Edna Duncan. 

By Susie Duncan Sexton

Tiny Kodak photograph’s an inspiration,
Nudging all toward joy and stifling frustration.
Poised upon my perfectly round kitchen table --

Crafted by Floyd Sullivan, Bob Hiss from maple!
 
Scrambled eggs, grits, corn-bread, home-grown sliced tomatoes,
Phone calls, door-bells, surprise visitors—friends and foes,
Parties, consultations, band-aids, grand-children, pets,
Jokes, laughter, tear-drops, card decks, cup and saucer sets…
 
Off to Blue Bell’s front office, West Ward School or church!
Start each day with napkins -- and silverware drawer search.
Meet again -- noontime -- vegetable soup for lunch.
Congregating at supper – tired yet happy bunch!
 
Ah, “Mr. D”, synonymous with love and cheer,
Father-hen to family, employees.  So dear!
Role-model of protectiveness, consistency,
Friendliness, encouragement, and FIERCE loyalty.
 
“Snooks”, aproned, bustling, inclusive, and witty,
Short of stature, ever eager, fun and pretty,
Seldom recognized for your brilliant mind -- your strength!
To channel your fervor, I’d go to any length.
 
Fascinating!  The two of you loved, lasted, rhymed.
Up, over, through, around Life’s challenges I’ve climbed.
Do be proud that I’m certainly no dunce –
Here’s a “Thank You” I’ve OWED  “y’all” more than once!

(Photos provided by Susie Duncan Sexton) Does anyone recognize any of the familiar local faces above?

By Susie Duncan Sexton
 
May’s celebrations run the springtime gamut from Mothers’ Day
Through my birth-date to culminate in soldier’s wreaths on display.
Lilies of the valley bloom, bowing down soon to peonies,
As June debuts officially to kick off summer’s soft breeze.
 
Memories of angst, somewhere within this frolicking time frame,

Produce reflections of society’s once forced dating game—
Going steady, first or French kisses, sock-hops, dreading acne,
Halitosis, how far to go, and if “what will be will be”?
 
Prom season fell within those months—NOT FOR ALL so gleefully.
Wall-flowers yearned for the phone to please connect us to a HE!
My sis attended once on the arm of Johnny Whiteleather
Who brought her home EARLY; our moms had hustled them together?
 
She’d looked so beautiful. I’d  wanted to tag along. She cried…
With her bungled eve in perspective, I vowed one day to hide!
No gymnasiums transformed, behind fake oriental screens.
Forget those after-parties and courts of penny-pitch kings, queens!
 
However, when “little sis” became of frantic high-school age,
And forced social conventions started to fill page after page,
Eagerly anticipating at “least” two mating-type calls,
I ashamedly rejoiced I’d stare ne’er at my bedroom walls!
 
Junior year:  “Intercom Jimmy” proclaimed countless committees!
Each morn, listening closely, I sulked, ”Not on even one?”  Geez?
Rebel!  I wore a white spaghetti-strapped sundress the “big”night,
When Eugene rang the door-bell and pinned a corsage to the right.
 
I’d boast of four dates in four years: Komet Hockey game with Wayne;
Movie “on” Steve; nearly two dates that “Eugene” night!!!  (How insane
Would it have been for Jerry Paulus to join us?  He asked, too!
Mike Andrews appeared on my Senior Prom dance card -- called me “Sue”!)
 
Bussing -- nor smooching -- never occurred!  Closest ever? John Fleck
Drove ME home to glimpse dream-girl Kathy, next-door-- stretching his neck!
Archie, Veronica, Betty, Reggie, Moose and Jug-head rocked!
MY teen-aged years drifted by, Rapunzel in her tower locked.
 
Gary Galloway and I watched a drive-in WEST SIDE STORY;
Walt Meyers’ grand-son, Martin, charmed me with Doc’s degree glory!
(Postscripting both who’ll rate as unnoticed and incidental
By curious local peer group who’d question!  Soooooooo judgmental!)
 
But “Don’t Cry For Me, Argentina!”  Book-worms play Canasta
‘Round parents, attend the cinema with siblings. Disaster?
Nah!  Pa rigged a gig as a Wagon Wheel apprentice for me!
Painted scenery, danced with college kids in BYE BYE BIRDIE!*
 
-- Which propelled me to an artificial romance after all!
Ray Moore cast me in his first high school musical*, in the fall!
Handsome male lead Jon Schubert, I’d never spoken two words to,
Took me in his arms, singing!  Each show I earned a “smackeroo”!
 
His main squeeze seethed off-stage for each and every performance!
Due to her presence and that of “extras”, I felt like a dunce!
Yet, I’ve photographs proving that “All’s Well That Ends Well” -- in bliss!
With 400 locals watching, I DID receive my first kiss!

(Talk of the Town photos provided) Above, the Westinghouse television set was a popular source of entertainment at the Duncan house. Below, Susie spends some time in the great outdoors where life was really entertaining.

By Susie Duncan Sexton

Sure, sure, so Joanne Peabody Bates performed cartwheels alllllllll the way home after school.  Her mom, Phyllis, would peer outside and then swing wide the screen door, judging that her freckle-faced, double-jointed grade school kid might land somewhere inside the kitchen shortly after her daughter’s sneakered feet sailed wildly past the window above the sink!  And alright, I admit that everybody but I, during recess, headed boldly for the playground’s new JUNGLE GYM…a towering maze of iron cubicles situated immediately outside the high school’s band building.  Monkeys!

 
Wait!  I once defied classification as a slouch in the athletic arena.  Scowling, Eugene Barnett (years later my Colin Firth look-alike prom date) and I charged each other like a bull and matador shuffling through the school-yard dirt and mud and grime. From opposite corners of some type of wrought-iron tri-pod gizmo, we twisted our individual clanging swing chains -- completely wrapped together face to face, our little rear-ends perched on seats fashioned from split fire hoses -- only to whizzingly unwind again.  Our stunned classmates gathered around to watch as the two of us checked to see if all of our fingers and thumbs were still attached to our hands.  Eat your heart out, Joanne!  
 
Also, because my lanky legs grew lengthier than ANYBODY’S in the entire institution -- including the boys’-- I always unfailingly sprinted farther and faster during impromptu track meets and presently endure mercilessly dilapidated knees both of which substantiate my bragging rights!
 
Furthermore, post school-day, the speed with which I rushed back to where I lived (and still do hang out) -- by catty-cornering persnickety old ladies’ manicured lawns and jay-walking both Line and Walnut Streets -- might have established records if anyone had bothered to clock me.  I always got to my front door long before Mrs. Winnie Morsches arrived at hers.  The beautiful new bride and most recent teacher, upon whom all the boys had a crush, bicycled from West Ward to Main toward her brick “honeymoon” house, nestled on the most-traveled thoroughfare in town, directly across from her in-laws.
 
At long last I approached my comfort zone, HOME, having partially survived HOURS stationed all scrunched within a rickety wooden school desk laden with penknifed initials, feeling exactly like one of the Blues Brothers with whom I would eventually empathize as I watched their film on TV in the eighties?  As a grammar school brat, I majored in…the “golden age of television”.  I missed not a trick!  The boob tube became my motivation in life --  and the cherished status of  “couch potato” my destination.
 
Barging inside and plopping down upon the floor directly in front of the screen, nose to nose with Buffalo Bob, Clark Kent, Pinky Lee, and Annette, I destroyed my eyesight within about a year.  Near-sightedness began its hold on me thanks to my close proximity to those pixilated play-mates.
 
Our first Westinghouse “set”, installed by a freshly graduated Purdue engineer named Gordon Washington who worked at Blue Bell for my dad, occupied its corner spot beside the fireplace—the “old-hat” radio nestled forlornly on the opposite side of the hearth.  Technology circa 1953, black and white moving pix, fuzzy hissing beeping audio, test patterns which featured an Indian chief’s face peeking through his head-dress surrounded by several enumerated circles within other circles, space-age-ish antenna and its accompanying wiring—UPTOWN!  COOL!  I would soon view Philo T. Farnsworth, the inventor of electronic television who hailed from neighboring Ft. Wayne, win 80 bucks plus a carton of Winston cigarettes as he fooled panelists Henry Morgan, Betsy Palmer and Polly Bergen during his appearance on a 1957 installment of Garry Moore’s I’VE GOT A SECRET.
 
Thus began the decline of any athletic inclination I ever may have  possessed.  FAST FORWARD:  I eventually learned to ride a “two-wheeler” (sans training wheels) at age 10, to drive at 19, grudgingly attempted the game of “whiff/divot” golf, participated in Girl’s Junior League one dreary year—the highlight of which, at tournament time, I dribbled to the wrong end of the court to shoot a startled basket-ball into the opponent’s hoop.  Furthermore, my swimming prowess consisted of the back stroke and wading.
 
Athleticism is but a dim memory now.  I believe I may have been seven the last time I truly wished to excel at anything remotely physical.  That seems to be the same magic year Howdy Doody entered our living room.  I vividly recall  I jumped my little wooden-handled rope, lollipop dangling from my lips, while Clarabell the Clown squirted seltzer water at the show’s cast of assorted marionettes—never removing my eyes from the screen for a split second as one afternoon followed the other.  My parents concluded that I might be the culprit for their favorite evening shows’ relentless skipping to my same rhythm…totally unwatchable until the console was smacked and knobs adjusted.
 
Maintaining pace with the Russian space program somehow began to translate itself into specifically physical education becoming a (I hoped temporary) nationally required daily competitive fixation and “all the rage” about the same time I specialized in obsessive viewing of PLAYHOUSE 90, STUDIO ONE, ALFRED HITCHCOCK PRESENTS, THE LORETTA YOUNG SHOW, U.S. STEEL HOUR, DEATH VALLEY DAYS, ARMSTRONG CIRCLE THEATER, OMNIBUS, even the Cowboy Soap Operas my brother–in-law Guy became addicted to from his sprawled upon the couch position, such as GUNSMOKE, HAVE GUN WILL TRAVEL, BAT MASTERSON, WILD BILL HICKOK, BONANZA, WYATT EARP, MAVERICK.  Saturday Morning Cartoons, Bishop Sheen, Mr. Wizard, AMERICAN BANDSTAND, FATHER KNOWS BEST, LEAVE IT TO BEAVER, I LOVE LUCY, DECEMBER BRIDE…YOUR SHOW OF SHOWS, ERNIE KOVACS, HIT PARADE, ED SULLIVAN, DINAH SHORE SHOW, George Gobel and his spooky wife Alice, BURNS & ALLEN…FINALLY “The Star Spangled Banner” wrapped up each evening’s viewing at midnight.  Test pattern resumed.
 
Although I adored JFK, his insistence upon youth fitness -- benefiting our nation’s “New Frontier”-- caused the two of us to have irreconcilable differences.  Every time I endured consistent, relentless humiliation as the very last person chosen by either of two rugged school-girl captains choosing up sides for volley ball or softball or whatever, I resented my favorite president miserably.
 
To this day, I much prefer that I “discovered” Robert Redford and Charlton Heston in their LIVE debut thespian performances on the telly as well as personally re-enacted the original PRICE IS RIGHT show impersonating Bill Cullen awarding imaginary guests all of our living room furniture and kitchen appliances, rather than wasting childhood fretting about something satellite-ish named “Sputnik”  and space races and arms proliferation and “Red” threats or whether or not I might make the cut at cheer-leader try-outs.  After all, not many arthritic people my age actually continue to play tennis or jog or even walk around the block…but there remains the remote possibility that Alex Trebek might find my knowledge of TV trivia astounding and give me a call?  A new car would be a grand prize indeed!   Remember I have been driving since age 19, so all of these many years later I am certainly up to the challenge!
 
 “There’s nothing on (television) worthwhile, and we’re not going to watch it in this household, and I don’t want it in your intellectual diet.”  (~ Philo Taylor Farnsworth’s advice to his son Kent)

(Talk of the Town photo provided) Above, Susie's cats Tristan and Isolde.

By Susie Duncan Sexton

Once Upon a Time…
Blustery wind gales, accompanied by Rice-Krispie-like snappling of sleety teensy hail-nuggets, assaulted our front porch.  Wicker furniture, evoking pleasant sunny summer memories, squeaked forlornly out of sync with a perturbed, ferocious mood-swing of Mother Nature. Motion-lights highlighted confused weather patterns which scooted planters hither, thither, and yon.
Pajama-clad, I groggily approached the front door, opened it and viewed, amidst all of the unleashed furor, a handsome tabby-tomcat sporting a white bib -- with 4 matching spats.  He huddled.  He meowed.   He caterwauled.  He howled.  He pleaded for shelter, practically upon bended knee.
"Welcome, my little friend!”  Inside he hustled, suddenly slinking stealthily -- prowling about the plaid couch’s warmth.  Pouncing down!  Leaping upon a wing chair!  Roaming free-range through-out the dining room, culminating in discovery of…the kitchen!  One bowl of Friskies later, I assigned him a cat crate, equipped with a small litter box, for the evening’s duration.
Lamps switched off, I approached the stairway anxious for my own warm bed, quilts, relaxation, sleep.  Whoops-a-daisy!  Once again, out-door lights flooded through the window, interrupting darkness.  
Déjà vu!  Retracing my footsteps and standing upon the threshold, I glimpsed a petite, lacey looking, bewhiskered, squatty little girl who skittered here and there, battling the colliding and inclement elements while avoiding my presence.
“Got food? OR milk?”  Positioning the bowls beneath a rustic, wooden bench, I gingerly scooped her into my arms. “Bait” succeeded effortlessly!
Two comfortably incarcerated kitty-cats later, I finally dozed. My waking husband seemed sympathetic upon viewing a couple of “mountain lions" front and center stage, adorning our living room -- bright and early the next morning!
Whisked to our veterinarian's clinic, satisfactorily passing blood-work tests, both visitors headed toward neuter/spay surgery.  Isolde's pricey operation included removal of 6 embryonic marbles never to be alley-born under spring shrubbery -- overpopulating the neighborhood.
Visiting the vet’s office over the week-end, how impressive to witness both patients’ bonding while healing, cuddling within their mutual cage, nestled together, legs all intertwined.
Legendary star-crossed lovers Tristan and Isolde rivaled King Arthur and Guinevere for star status...poetry, books, Broadway scripts, films and operas chronicle their classical romance’s endurance despite all odds.
Joyfully, this simpler and gentler version of that epic greets our hearts daily as this special, unique pair -- dubbed “Trissie” and “Issie” --  continues embracing, sharing dinner, frolicking from room to room, enjoying television shows, listening to jazz cds, and cavorting in a warm and cozy house filled with love and appreciation, minute to minute.  
And For Seven Years Until This Present Day, They All Lived Happily Ever After!  =^..^= <3 =^..^= <3

Above, second from left, is a little Susie studying her Christmas gift alongside friends. To see more of Susie's photos, visit her Old Type Writer page on Facebook.

By Susie Duncan Sexton

Admittedly, personal discussions which focus upon politics, religion, finances, in-laws, the questionable necessity for either camouflaged Rambo-type hunting or Betty Crocker-ish canning and preserving, "Which arrived first, the chicken or the egg?" or "Is it acceptable to wear white after labor day?" all qualify as verboten.  Where does that leave us, then, in the time-honored pursuit of short and snappy fun and merriment among casual acquaintances?
 
Why, the "devil's in--the details" of... 52 (or more) plasti-coated BICYCLE CARDS!  "Luck, be a lady!"  A return to the gaming tables. Warning: "Ya gotta know when to hold 'em and know when to fold 'em!"

 
My parents, hailing from Southern Baptist heaven deep within the heart of Dixie-land, pulled their blinds when newly married!  In order to play pinochle, gin rummy, or euchre (for which the "joker" got himself invented), they became surreptitious, deceitful seekers of...FUN.  Who knew when my devout schoolmarm grandma might have dropped by, reminding the couple to attend church services, only to discover their deviant behavior?  The newly-weds became foxy, recognizing the familiar sound of her orthopedic shoes ascending their tiny front steps. Edna and Roy made me who I am today.
 
Once my mother became a..."mother", her own roguish wickedness continued. During the fabulous post-war late '40s and Eisenhower-led early '50s, my sister Sarah attended West Ward grammar school at a time encompassing that era in which CANASTA became roaringly popular within the United States. Melding, wild cards--deuces and jokers, magical sought-after RED threes ("treys"), "freezing" the stack or gleefully grabbing it up, "going out" on an opponent sitting across the kitchen table and caught holding "close to the vest" a fistful of cards suddenly representing negative points--A KALEIDOSCOPE OF A GAME!  The Spanish word "Canasta" appropriately translates into "basket"!   Well, my mama would meet little "Sass" at the front door--after school--hang up her child's tiny coat and then...challenge her to a 90 minute round of the enticing new game. Sarah grew up to become the family mathematician!
 
Our family, never wealthy yet always frugal, creatively sought out fun and relished being at home more than anywhere else in the world. Seldom vacationed...in fact, never. Frequented "dollar days" downtown. Drove old cars. We sisters wore hand-me-downs or dresses/sweaters courtesy of our seamstress/knitter mom--almost exclusively. If we bought material possessions, they stayed in the family for generations. My clothes and toys enjoyed second lives with my darling nieces.  Hmmmm. Particularly, the toys I still wish I had!  ARGHHHHH!   
 
However, well-worn decks of kings, queens, jacks, aces--those "ratty-packs"--never left the premises. Spread across table-tops!  Scattered over tiled/hard-wood/carpeted floors!  Stashed in bureau drawers!  Four suits of spades, hearts, diamonds, and clubs always at the ready.  Their configurations into various games held such promise.
 
Fond memories of Blue Bell foremen conducting their Christmas celebrations (a.k.a. "office parties") in our dining room, counting their poker chips and pocketing winnings of small change (while Mrs. D. served fancy ham salad sandwiches as well as that other kind of "chips" and a few cocktails) are interrupted for a second as I recollect that disapproving protesters occasionally dropped by and exited prior to the decadence that would follow. (Always gotta be a party pooper or two.) Poker boasts "zero-sum-game" status which factors in Keynesian Laws of Economics, after all. Looking on the bright, wholesome side, those guys enjoyed a "busman's holiday" maybe?  Time and a half?  Ah, well, more frolicking punctuated my "coming of age" years when visiting engineers from Greensboro, Chicago, or Waterbury spent evenings with us playing "Thirty-One", betting pennies and following the rules by "knocking" on the kitchen table, warning of "one more round--then game's over--highest score wins the pot"!  A rather frenetic cut-throat contest where we kids were included!  Those days of "Mad Men"--wonderful!
 
Thoughts turn to the pursuit of Bridge--in all of its forms whether duplicate or contract or rubber--where folks are forced to "connect" albeit competitively yet with fellowship intact. Many "dummies" (authentic Bridge term) and much "trumping" and "finessing" puckishly continue to haunt this house.  VIsitors included Dr. Minear and Helen Markley, Dr. John, Kleespies, Smiths, McNagnys, and sundry progressive Tri-Kappa-Luncheon/Bridge-Combo Fund-Raiser participants (but NEVER Lowell and D'maris Grant who qualified to compete in California-Style TOURNAMENT BRIDGE matches with the likes of Omar Sharif, the Egyptian movie star/gambler/card-playing genius).  When a partner was "in absentia", I got to play cuz the adults "needed a fourth"!  Mrs. Langohr and I both possessed the same edgy, risky bidding habits a bit beyond the reality of the situation.  Remembrance of a famous quote from my Dad,  "Margo, you're NUTS!", never failed to send her into gales of good-natured laughter.
 
My parents, the Bonnie and Clyde of the "According to Hoyle" set, did not cease their insidious influence with their children. Oh no!  All grandchildren were ritualistically brought into the "family" as well. My son Roy, now a seasoned card shark, survived (and thrived upon) initiation at an early age via the now-forgotten classic "Kings on the Corner." Following clearance from the breakfast table of left-over corn-bread, eggs, and grits--also cutlery, plates, water glasses, and cloth napkins--the decks were "cut" and hands were dealt!  Vigorous card wars ensued. What happens at grandma's kitchen table stays at grandma's kitchen table...another helping of Southern-fried "omerta" please!  Incidentally, Roy now owns a Phi Beta Kappa key and considers himself "home-schooled" for all intents and purposes?
 
Professor "Music Man" Harold Hill, sang, "We've got trouble, my friends...trouble right here in River City."  Show me, though, where it is written:  "Thou shalt not partaketh of good clean fun."  No, please don't!  Some of us never are too pre-occupied or busy to stop to promote and enjoy an impromptu window of opportunity for gamesmanship.  My current "shuffle up and deal" family--in my dreams--consists of Russell Crowe, Hugh Jackman, Al Pacino, and Javier Bardem. Hey, kids, we've got a foursome!  I'll set up the Bridge table, provide the score pads and tallies, prepare refreshments and happily kibitz!
 
Happy Holidays to Y'all!  "May your days be merry and bright!"

(Talk of the Town photos courtesy Susie Duncan Sexton) Above, an interior view of the "old" Grace Lutheran Church. Below, at center, Rev. Graham Kleespie of Grace Lutheran Church. Beneath, from left, Dr. and Mrs. John Langohr, Mr. and Mrs. Roy Duncan, Mayor and Mrs. Garland Stickler and Rev. and Mrs. Graham Kleespie.

By Susie Duncan Sexton

Defamation of Character?  Not my idea of a fun summer!  
I descended from a long line of "characters" who could circle the globe 85 times and then extend all the way to heaven and back 16 more times.  We know who we are.  We like who we are.  We are who we are.
Floodgates burst open!
Keith Kleespies's darling "baby" daughter brought 60 scrapbooks to my porch one sultry August afternoon. I, perspiring profusely, struggled with where to store them.  As I did so, I interrupted the bucket-brigade type activity, taking over my body, to flip open nearly half of them.
Dating from 1934 until the eighties, a history of our community danced before my non-sweat-banded eyes. Wiped my moist face with my t-shirt, swatted at mosquitoes, pit-stopped for gulps from a jug of rapidly dwindling iced tea and BLEW MY OWN MIND as these treasure troves fell open--on the way toward my enclosed back porch--to newspaper articles, photographs, playbills, red-white-blue ribbons, dried flowers, certificates announcing everything from meritorious service to club memberships, report cards, typed prayers and sermons, etc. etc. and so forth.
Why me?  Am I the most recent town historian?  Oh, my, let's hope not for all of our sakes.  I don't dwell on the past.  I am informed by the past.  And I realized, upon studying these precious scrapbooks, blessed by the past.
Reverend Graham Kleespie's booming voice and masterful presence impressed the teen-aged version of myself as reminiscent of actor Rex Harrison's star turns in period pieces.  More realistically, this pastor headed up a special family--Cornelia, his family-oriented and sparkling wife, and sons Graham, Jr. and Keith--two of the handsomest dudes ever to grace this planet.  Cornelia stunned my mother by declining to accompany her to Marlon Brando's 1957 film SAYONARA.  "Corny" sorely missed "young Graham" and his family who were stationed in Japan, and she feared crying throughout the entire two-hour movie.  Keith qualified as our local James Dean, gorgeous, sensitive and ("once upon a time") a quietly rebellious soul who transformed into, presently, the dearest gentleman ever.  
For some reason, Keith (While playing our piano as a 13-year-old, he was bitten by our demented Toy Manchester but did forgive us!) requested that I should be the recipient of his dad's scrapbooks.  So, when the newspaper announcement of my birth (scotch-taped onto the May day entries of a date in the forties) met my glance, his choosing me as an archivist seemed appropriate  This intriguing collection may have landed happily into the right hands.  "Duncans greet arrival of third daughter."  Wow?  Photographs of my parents co-chairing, with Garland and Georgia Stickler, the Grace Lutheran Church building restoration filled the 1961 edition.  My sis's wedding appeared in the 1960 leather-bound issue.  Familiar faces one right after the other, though caught in a surreal type of freeze-frame, smiled at me and stirred wonderful memories.
Rev. Kleespie consistently seemed to have  "posted" items of interest every single day for scores of years.  I revisited Velma Moeller, the Langohr family, Ed and Nerva Binder, Clarence "Booney" Feist, the Schraders, the Pumphreys, the Bowies, the Ramseys, the Eberhards, the Stellhorns, Sunday school classes, hundreds of brides and grooms.  I pored over obituaries, birth announcements of class-mates, accounts of tragic automobile accidents, countless happy celebrations, community accolades, newsworthy historic global incidents.  Such a day by day diary I have never--no, never--observed.  Each book starts with a declaration of precisely what year he recorded life's events, via words and numbers laboriously scissored from construction paper and glued upon the initial page of every journal, often enhanced with fascinating frontispieces.
How admirable of him!  Perhaps this detailed accumulation of information previously had facilitated necessary alerts typed into each Sunday's bulletin or, spoken in a thundering voice, his weekly announcements from the pulpit.  Nobody ever visited the sick and the elderly as frequently and religiously as Graham Kleespie, so this assemblage of community events may have been his road trip atlas directing him toward waiting hearts and various locales each 24-hour time-frame spanning 40 plus years.  Phenomenal.
As far as strength of character, this man--who played a crucial role during my growing-up years--displayed a quality which I admire tremendously.  He had clipped out and pasted--upon a page filled with the bustling hour to hour activities in which we all engage daily--a cryptic, unkind, critical poetic effort from a member of his "flock".  This poisoned-pen dart snuggles among greeting cards, accounts of wedding receptions, obits--a representative inclusion of the human condition from some lost soul striking out to demand attention. "Now, turn the page, and life goes on," Keith's dad messaged to me at that moment.  Compassion.  Understanding.  Acceptance.  Tolerance.  Forgiveness.
Such possibilities these sweet and thoroughly organized scrapbooks hold forth.  Toying for several weeks with a story idea, I had no clue as to the first names of folks I wished to discuss who brought magic itself to Columbia City for a number of years in the fifties.  Oddly, serendipity moved front and center stage as I neared the conclusion of an afternoon spent alternately lugging and browsing.  
An obituary, yellowed and brittle from age, pertaining to the possible subject of my next OLD TYPE WRITER installment actually wafted to the living room floor.  I reached down to retrieve it and read the names of this larger-than-life fellow, his wife, and their daughter and son--a lovely Jewish family.  
What a beautiful Wednesday afternoon which I was happily foisted into and which blended the past with the present, reminding me that intelligence, interest in the bigger picture, respect for all people everywhere, and sympathy/empathy for  "human nature" were successfully conveyed to my youthful mind years ago by Reverend Graham Kleespie.  Thanks, Keith and Karman, for honoring me with this special collection of community memories.  I eagerly anticipate sharing what I learn, scrapbook by scrapbook.  I'll close with your dad's, and grand-dad's, parting words, as he spread his arms as wide apart as humanly possible, the upturned palms of his hands seeming to beckon to us and gather us all up in a huge embrace each Sunday morning:  "May that love which surpasseth all human understanding be ours forever and ever. Peace be with you. A-men."

Why newspapers are reducing the voices of the people to "American Idol" status is no mystery. SIMON Legree types dominate, comfortably yet precariously poised at the helm, kowtowing to whichever side provides the most revenue while encouraging on-lookers via sophomoric surveys to hoist thumbs up or down?  BTW, don't forget to pre-pay for your obituary.
 
Our currently raw wound of a divided country facilitates the selling of space to the most promising bidders who may be clutching their "30 pieces of silver" and top dollar lucrative offers in their fists. A facebook friend asked exactly when local papers stopped reporting local news and when journalists ceased being allowed to be journalists for fear of lawsuits or personal repercussions and when balanced public opinion got hushed.
 
I wrote what I considered to be my final letter to any editor posing those very questions last month, published in only two newspapers.  Covering the waterfront concerning why print media captivates so few now, I concluded that rather than exercising a moderate and fair stance, journalism has become opportunistic as it gasps its few terminal breaths while slouching toward unimpressed potential advertisers.
 
Prostitution has kicked in, with a vengeance.  Many papers allow letters to the editor and sometimes encourage them. However, instant feed-back via the inter-net, in the instances of some larger "rags" posted while hastening to keep pace, has degenerated this entire process into the damaging shout-fest atmosphere of a hate-filled talk-radio show.  Thinkers are not responding...extremist agendas are.
 
Feeling saddened that newspapers seemed to be experiencing death throes, I once wished to rush to their defense. Currently, I'll be delighted to attend their funeral services.  Hopefully, they'll be able to pay for their own obituaries, one of the final handful of reasons many of us ever bothered with messy inky newsprint in the first place, "obits" which are now unreliable cuz money talks and corpses cannot.
 
Of particular concern is this industry's self-professed "dumbing down", condescending to a supposedly salivating public considered too un-intelligent to appreciate nationally syndicated columnists or AP & UPI news services providing up to the minute current events information or balanced forums representing all political persuasions and philosophies sans bias.  These latter offerings would cost money, possibly decrease profits, and demand a work ethic other than laziness.
 
Duping the public by catering to the lowest common denominator, as pre-judged by winking out-of-town publishers, as well as slanting/spinning any news or special interest columns to appeal to a vocal, domineering few presently disappoint readers as duplicitous, deceptive behavior.
 
If this unfortunate state of affairs did not seem so irresponsible, self-serving, money-grubbing and frightening, it might be hilarious fodder for a Marx Brothers style movie.  However, the newsprint industry totters on the brink of failure and evidently will do anything to stay afloat, robbing US of our right to subscribe to the news we need to know, not simply want to know. That does not bode well for our country, and newspapers ought to be folded up, after all, and finally "put to bed". Without their supper.
 
If you're the sort to pray, then ask for this.  Good Lord, please assure "net neutrality" advocated by former "SNL" comedian, "Air America" host, and current deadly serious U. S. Senator from Minnesota, Al Franken.  He's not joking when he emphasizes to listening constituents that our system of fair and crucial reporting of information, which we all need to survive, is in serious jeopardy.  Print journalists have not risen to that occasion as they take greedy advantage of a paying public at a most critical moment in our nation's history.
 
Nighty night, Fourth Estate.  Don't let the bed-bugs bite.  Our future security exists and depends upon computer monitors where fair, globally oriented exchanges occur and all of us have voices to challenge those overbearing, self-serving, intimidating demands from brass knuckled moguls representing corporate America or from special interests or from institutions which enjoy tax-exempt status.  Hopefully, the party's over. We extend our sympathies, though, to those cute little newspaper carriers who pedaled around our neighborhoods and will always remain a quaint feature of our Norman Rockwell past, a time when commerce was simpler and still motivated by a higher order.

 
Vtech phone jingled off the hook. Information from a dear friend, freshly arrived home and recuperating from thyroid surgery, involved this self-proclaimed "cat-whisperer" (me) rescuing a severely crippled kitten.  Pretty chum Laurie planned to deliver "Elizabeth Barrett Browning" within 15 short minutes.
 
Two ladies in bathrobes engaged in a prolonged transfer of one spooked kitty from a cardboard box to a certified, appropriately sanctioned feline carrier. This emergency-mode caper, accompanied by tears-smiles-hugs, activated our porch's motion lights. Lizzie Beth, wide-eyed and with her tiny heart fluttering, continued her journey toward safety--and, hopefully, a lengthy and happy life.
 
Veterinarians own my soul similarly to Tennessee Ernie Ford's which belonged to the "company store"!  Lizzie Beth's nerve damaged-front leg demands amputation, and only my commitment to possibly a paper route might generate enough pennies in the piggy bank to cover a $700 operation of such magnitude.
 
Thus, years upon years filled with visiting the good doctors Coble & Waterfall, Richey & Mawhorter, Rogers & Glidewell, and McMahon & McLead serve me well.
 
Dr. Coble, especially, remains within my thoughts as the personification of resignation to the human penchant for pet adoration. I visualize him to this day sitting in a rocking chair inside the lobby of his clinic, located along the alley behind Smith's Funeral Home, caressing our tiny Toy Manchester Timmy on another midnight circa the early 1950s. "Doc" met our family, post-an-800-mile-return-trip from South Carolina, so that we might retrieve our beloved and pampered pet "whom" he had generously boarded for us.  Years later, he would neuter our new little family's Beau Jangles cat and inform us that Beau might be gone for absolutely days once we got him home.  Why?  "Cancelling all of his dates!"  Loved that doc!
 
Observation, acquisition of patience, and emotional investment tempered with common sense play front and center--lessons learned from our friends, the veterinarians.  Dr. Mike even allowed me to assist part way with a series of surgeries required for my kindred soul, Murphy the Wonder Dog.
 
As 250 geese plus goslings gained a reprieve this summer of 2010 and live out their lives for at least one more year, I now focus on this kitten's maturation underscored by her good health.  Money's tight; magic's not.
 
Regretting with all of my might that I shunned Chemistry 1 and 2...as well as Physics...while only engaging in that mandatory freshman Biology class taught by the amazing Leon Alter, I, alas, am not a DVM.  However, I am a former English and Language Arts teacher, inspired by Lois Walter and Mary Jane Lesh and a hand-ful of Literary professors, and thus I composed this Shakespearean ditty. Since Will borrowed his sonnet form from Italian Guittone of Arezzo, I feel no compunction whatsoever in ripping off the Bard of Avon.  My prayerful song/chant follows:
 

To Lizzie Beth Who Rang Our Door-Bell

 
Tiny, timid, "tortoise-shell", treasured pet:
Needy, delicate, demanding all day
Meow mix, litter box, never to fret.
We carry you about--you have "your way"!
 
Invalid so darling, the bills do mount.
Perhaps a suitor may one day appear,
Neutered, poetic, a huge bank account,
Who'll ply you with kisses and crutches, dear.
 
"The Barretts of Wimpole Street"--a sweet tale!
"Bob" and Elizabeth Barrett Browning!
Jennifer Jones portrayed you--with NO tail.
HAPPILY EVER AFTER--no frowning!
 
"How do (we) love thee?  Let (us) count the ways!"
Shots, flea baths, de-claw (?), and a vet who spays.
 
This stalwart little kitten stuns us with her feisty fortitude.  Her straying days behind her now, she vies for more than her share of attention, hissing, then frolicking, finally napping.  Although her left front leg is useless to her from the shoulder down, her adjustment to such a handicap convinces us to "let it be".  Lizzie Beth remains unfazed as she behaves in cat fashion--to the max--leaping, pouncing, jumping far into the air @ several times her own height.
As poet Robert Browning so famously wrote, "A man's reach should exceed his grasp...or what's a heaven for?"

Susie Duncan Sexton is a Columbia City resident and has been writing a column on Talk of the Town since July 2009.

(Talk of the Town photos provided) Above, Susie Sexton with her husband, Don, and son, Roy. Below, a father and son moment most appropriate for Father's Day.

By Susie Duncan Sexton

"Soap and education are not as sudden as a massacre but they are more deadly in the long run."                                (--Mark Twain)

Non-Contest

"Parenting" qualifies as a word to dislike--

Artificial, "all aboard", domineering clap-trap!

Accidental, "out-of-the-nowhere" little tike?

Aye!  Free entrance "into-here" toward growth with no map.

Momentary Links--Between Generations

"...Record that (we) are born."

You be you--I'll be me.

Birthrights of joy, not scorn,

We both arrived to "BE".

"Send 3-5 poems."   Three's Enough

Any and all submissions accepted.  Do follow these rules:

Stay within lines, double-space, capitalize, file into schools.

Categories, uniforms, pushing's allowed onto "stages".

Stop. Do not submit. Allow Life to fill up each book's pages.

(Talk of the Town photos provided) Above, the Duncan family enjoys a down home, southern meal with family many years ago. Below, taking another southern visit, Susie, her son, Roy, and cousin Kathy Cook enjoy a Southern trip together in more recent years.

By Susie Duncan Sexton

October’s tears erupted from both joy and despair.

Chauffeured to Dixie-land “Miss Daisy” style--not one care.

Northern space aliens arrived, kissed cousins galore,

Yet proved to themselves, “True, you can’t go home…anymore…”

 

Marriott terraces encourage survey of lands

Mountainous, splendid, degenerate--shaped by God’s hands.

Crisp air.  Hospitality.  Southern dialects sparse.

Wealth redistribution. Carpet-baggers returned.  Farce!

 

George Washington Vanderbilt, claiming Dutch heritage,

“Nouveau riche”, established future PBS setting--a stage!

Forty-three “johns”, bowling alley, pool, Euro-mazes,

Turn-of-the-century elevator--“spoiled-boy”-crazes.

 

Conservatory, Arboretum, a Winery.

Bears, deer, fall foliage, blight, crawling “kudzu” vinery.

Esplanade, azalea garden, rusting wrought iron fences.

Agrarian/Industrial coincidences.

 

Nestled solemnly, further downtown, rested my soul--

Asheville’s native “bad boy” son, on whom life took its toll.

Stone-mason Daddy, control-freakin’ Ma--Tom shunned home

To write sorrow-filled novels, NOT squeezed into a poem.

 

Vanderbilt’s grand schemes, castles in sky, “working” estate

Awed not quite so “fine” as Thomas Wolfe’s modest front gate.

Biltmore’s promoters:  “ Paradise ?  Forty-five bucks…per…!”

Julia’s “Old Kentucky Home” Boarding House?   “Dollar, sir!”

 

Sensory, literary--Sargent, (Wharton & Henry James), Whistler, Renoir.

Archaic, primitive, rustic--needn’t drive far.

Country Club dining within philanthropist’s mountain.

Fried chicken, potato salad, Bat Cave , brook fountain.

 

Chimney Rock, Flat Rock, Blowing Rock.  How high may we go?

“Acorn” Crests, carriage rides, Central-Park-like.  “Got the dough?”

O. Henry’s “surprise ending” in Gothic graveyard plot.

Calculating three legends now--“What else have ya got?”

 

Robert Frost defined HOME:  “Where…they have to take you in.”

Whirlwinds of supposed debauchery, engaged in sin,

Or revelatory family secrets filling (23,000) books

Certainly spur hometown friends’/enemies’ askance looks!

 

Wholesomeness breeds at Carl Sandburg’s Chikaming Goat Farm,

Phi Beta Kappa wife Lilian Steichen whose charm,

Devotion, “beautiful mind” deemed Connemara spot

Heaven for Nubians, Toggenburgs, poet-hot-shot!

 

Relics, glowing tales, informative guides leading tours--

Souvenirs, period furniture, photo-brochures--

Create dynamic mythologies, few questions asked

Concerning larger-than-life-folks who in the sun basked?

 

Shanties, crape myrtle, switchbacks, dusty roads, and red clay,

Super-highways “carry” us to BMW-Ville--“Hey?”

Tar Heels! Sand Lappers! Birthright, lineage, pedigree!

Familial politics, “Bride of Christ” churches--wheeeee!

 

Smiles, embraces, sweet-tea, corn-bread, fried okra, biscuits,

Mis-judged gargoyles, over-rated angels, lunch baskets,

Odd crumbling tomb-stones, post-cards, cell-phones, ear-pops, On-Star,

Picaresque road trips, picayune chatter.  “Find a bar!”

 

“Home again.  Home again.  Jiggety Jog.”  “Miss my dog!”

Southern roots syrupy, saccharine; Yankees in fog!

Trapped in time warps, couplets, quatrains, rhythm and child’s rhyme,

Hopelessly constrained, restrained within bound’ries of time.

 

Niece, son, I--cruising through-out Appalachian Range,

“On Top of Old Smokey”, Blue Ridge --seeking fair exchange--

Routine’s rut for enlightenment’s rejuvenation?

Competitiveness, “civil” war wounds, lamentation. (OR jubilation?)

 

Reeling “Odyssey” unending, frolicking, aching--

Sharing such laughter, grief, warmth, brittleness, muck-raking.

Fop’s opulence, poet’s conceit, novelist’s torment

Signified by lone marble angel, their monument.

 

Look homeward!  Which direction?  Might we dare?

You see, our hearts beat.  Buried.  Everywhere.

(Dedicated to:  Roy and Kathy…and Ashton)

(Talk of the Town art provided) Susie's love of furry friends has been lifelong...and seems to have been inherited genetically. Above, a cartoon captures the kind-hearted, sentimental, animal-loving Roy Duncan, Susie's father, looking after an injured family cat -- despite teasing from friends and co-workers.

By Susie Duncan Sexton

Winter of 1983 settled in, and my freshly dismal world crashed around me.  Saddest  season of my 37 years of living.  Daddy, aged 37 the year I was born, died of a massive cerebral hemorrhage one month past, when October leaves turned orange, yellow, red.  Surrounding, oppressive gloom weighed heavily as I slouched all nestled into my old, tattered, forlorn winged-back chair.