Jethro -- R.I.P.

June 19, 2004 -- May 31, 2013

The most loving dog we ever had, and full of joy. He showed us time and again what unconditional trust is.

Rest in peace, little buddy.

Life is full of shocks, but some shocks are more shocking than others

In 1948, when I was seven, our family’s little red Dodge pickup rolled into Mansfield, Texas (Pop. 774), for the very first time. We stayed for ten years. The most prominent building in town, just past the one-block-long business district that sported a traffic signal at both ends, was a structure known as Memorial Hall. It was a six- or eight-sided auditorium whose roof rose to a single-peak, very much in the Chatauqua style of an earlier era.

As far as I knew, Memorial Hall had been there forever. Later I learned that it had replaced the original building on the site -- a three-story, steam-powered, brick grist mill that had been built around 1859 by Ralph S. Man and Julian Feild. The community that grew up around Man’s and Feild’s Mill became Mansfield (people don’t quibble about changes in spelling out where the deer and the antelope play) and the rest is, well, history. There was no Mansfield Historical Society in those days, so the mill was torn down in the name of progress without so much as a by-your-leave or a bronze marker to commemorate the town’s beginnings. The name of the new structure -- Memorial Hall -- sufficed.

Here is an old photograph of the mill the town’s founders built:



And here is the Memorial Hall that replaced it:



In 1956, when I was 15, the Memorial Hall was torn down and replaced by still another structure, the brand-new Mansfield Municipal Building. At its dedication, I played the piano and my picture appeared in the local newspaper. If that sounds vaguely familiar, the reason may be that I posted about it here.

This week, an old friend (Fred Stone, MHS class of 1959) sent me a copy of the latest issue of the Mansfield News-Mirror (Volume 127, Number 20, May 15, 2013). It contained a shocker for yours truly.

The Mansfield Municipal Building, scene of my show-biz debut in 1956, has been torn down. It’s gone, disappeared, kaput. Under a front-page photograph of a pile of rubble was this caption:
“A backhoe sorts through the rubble of the Station House on Friday morning. The former City Hall, library and police department was built in the 1950s but had not been used for several years. The city sold the building to Monty and Kim Slawson, who plan to build a Mellow Mushroom restaurant.”

The accompanying article, “Making way for change: Station House Demolition,” read as follows: “A chunk of Mansfield history quickly turned into a pile of rubble Friday morning as a backhoe demolished the Station House, which had once served as City Hall, the library, police department and jail.

“Built in 1956, the building had been vacant for several years until it was bought by Monty and Kim Slawson of Mansfield, who plan to build a Mellow Mushroom restaurant at the busy southeast corner of East Broad and Main streets. Demolition of the Station House is the first phase of construction, Kim Slawson said.”

And then, almost as an afterthought:

“The area was the original site of the Man and Feild mill, owned by Ralph Man and Julian Feild, the founders of Mansfield.”

My life has come full circle. It has lasted long enough to witness the rise and fall, the ascent and demise, the birth and death of a major public building in my home town. These days Mansfield finally has a Historical Society, but who cares about preserving history when there is money to be made from selling pizzas?

Nobody, that’s who. I do hope some sort of historical marker will eventually be erected at that corner, but I’m not holding my breath.

It’s a little sad to realize that a building for whose dedication I provided music when I was 15 years old has been torn down as old and useless in my 72nd year. The article said it “had been vacant for several years.” I’m sure some people probably think the same thing about me.

In Atlanta, where I’ve lived since the mid-1970s, people got together and raised several million dollars to save and restore the Fabulous Fox Theater. It’s too late to save the Man and Feild grist mill, the old Memorial Hall, or the Mansfield Municipal building that served as City Hall, library, police department and jail. I wonder how many years will pass before someone decides something in Mansfield (estimated 2012 population: 59,831) is important enough to save. When that happens, I just hope it doesn’t turn out to be Monty and Kim Slawson’s pizza joint.



P.S. -- I know I’m being a little rough on the people of Mansfield. After all, the one-block-long business district is still intact. One of the buildings now houses the Mansfield Historical Society. And there may actually be a bronze marker on that corner now. I'm not really sure; I haven’t been back in a long time. I was just responding with my gut reaction to the news article Fred sent. I just wish that the Man & Feild grist mill was still there, or the Memorial Hall, or even the Municipal Building. But tear them all down so that Mansfield’s teens of tomorrow (projected 2017 population: 70,019) can eat pizza at a Mellow Mushroom? In my feeble mind, it does not compute.

Of course, we all know that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Or the one.



Live long and prosper.

And the winner of the Mystery Couple puzzler is...

Yesterday I posted this photo:



...and asked you two questions:

Who are they? And why did I put them on my blog?

We had hundreds dozens several four entrants.

And the winner (cue trumpet fanfare) is:

Not Mary Z who said, “Vernon and Irene Castle? Arthur Murray and wife?” because even though one of her two guesses is correct she didn’t address the “Why?” part of my puzzler. I did inform Mary Z. that Arthur Murray’s wife’s name was Katherine.

Not Hilltophomesteader who said, “Ah, you and Mrs. RWP look so utterly charming, gliding and swaying together as cheek to cheek you dance to the music in your hearts on your recent anniversary. My but you make a lovely couple! No wonder you’ve been married all these years - cemented together by such a great love....(You said ‘the best answer’...not necessarily the ‘correct’ answer, yes?)” because even though she obviously knows how to butter up a judge she didn’t really address the “Who?” part of my puzzler. Hilltop was definitely a contender, though, unlike this person.

Not Shooting Parrots who said, “The chap looks like David Niven, but Tin Eye tells me it is indeed Vernon and Irene Castle.” not only because he didn’t address the “Why?” part of my puzzler but also because he used Tin Eye when the rules clearly stated “No fair cheating by using the intricacies of modern technology to find out. Either you know the answer or you don’t.” Shame on you, Shooting Parrots.

Not Yorkshire Pudding, film pioneer, who said, “I know virtually nothing about dancing but I would say that that is a picture of Vernon and Irene Castle. My suggestion as to why they are in your blog is because you and your lady Ellie have decided to change your names to Vernon and Irene. Vernon Brague has a sophisticated ring to it - unlike the common sound of ‘Bob’ Brague. Janitor? Trucker? Once renamed you will waltz through the streets of Canton like Ginger and Fred (another unsophisticated name).” which, though it is rather the opposite of buttering up the judge, was the only one of the four entries that really addressed both parts of my puzzler. I replied to Pudding thusly: “Vernon and Irene Brague doesn’t carry near the sophistication of, say, Nigel and Penelope Brague or even Clive and Pamela Brague. But as one should be grateful for what one has been given, we have no plans to change our names.”

But as we must have a winner, a winner we shall have.

The winner, the only entrant who answered both parts of my puzzler, is none other than Lord Yorkshire Pudding of Pudding Towers, Sheffield, Yorkshire, England. He was wrong, however, as to the reason I posted the photo of Vernon and Irene Castle.

Receiving honorable/honourable mention and the Creative Writing bouquet of virtual daisies is the one and only Ms. Hilltophomesteader of Somewhere In The Western Portion Of The State Of Washington, Sixty Miles From The Coast.

The other entrants are urged to continue honing their problem-solving skills and to continue entering future contests, reading the rules very carefully. If at first one doesn’t succeed, one should try, try again.

You may remember that the prize was a year’s supply free.

Of what?

Why, happy thoughts, of course.

I have changed my mind -- I hereby declare everyone officially a winner, and here are five happy thoughts from a blogger named Gary to start you off. I’m afraid you’ll have to find the rest yourself. I lied.

I thought the second half of my puzzler -- why did I put a photograph of Vernon and Irene Castle on my blog? -- would have been obvious to regular readers of this blog who ought to know by now are constantly amazed at apparently have no clue about how my mind works.

It seemed the only logical thing to do -- it followed as the night the day -- after I showed you my poem, “The Rather Odd Story Of Iris McGee” which begins:

In a house at the edge of a deep, dark wood,
Near the place where Irene’s castle once stood,...

Well, it seemed obvious to me.

Mystery couple

I have two questions for you:

Who are they? And why did I put them on my blog?

No fair cheating by using the intricacies of modern technology to find out. Either you know the answer or you don’t.

The person with the best answer will receive a year’s supply free.

A year’s supply of what is for me to know and for you to find out.

I will also be the sole determiner of how much constitutes a year’s supply.

Consider yourself warned.

On your mark, get set, go.

The miracle worker and the miracle herself

In just a few days, it will have been 45 years since Helen Keller died. Born on June 27, 1880, she became both blind and deaf before the age of two. Her early childhood is well known thanks to the play The Miracle Worker and the several films that were made based on it. Miss Keller died on June 1, 1968, not quite four weeks before her 88th birthday.

Helen Keller had a wonderful friend and teacher named Anne Sullivan.

Here, in rare newsreel footage from 1930, Anne Sullivan explains, well, you'll see (2:58)....

After Anne Sullivan died in 1936, Polly Thompson became Helen Keller’s teacher and interpreter to the world. Here they are together in later years (3:06).

Helen Keller was a great inspiration to many, many people and remains so to this day. Those to whom she is not should be ashamed of themselves.

Showing you that poem about Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout yesterday made me think of...

...an old poem of mine that never saw the light of day. It has been in a drawer for a very long time, by which I mean since the 1990s. I’m not even sure it is finished. For better or worse, here it is:


The Rather Odd Story Of Iris McGee
by Robert Henry Brague

In a house at the edge of a deep, dark wood,
Near the place where Irene’s castle once stood,
There lived a young woman named Iris McGee.
She washed clothes on Mondays from seven to three;
On Tuesdays she ironed, then opened her mail;
On Wednesdays she waxed all the floors without fail;
On Thursdays she dusted and made up her bed;
On Fridays she painted the living room red;

On Saturdays, wearing a white wedding gown,
She drove a green tractor six miles into town,
Ate lunch at the deli and bought some new shoes,
Attended a concert, and paid union dues,
And waved at the townfolk, who thought her quite odd.
On Sundays that rained, she would think about God.
On Sundays with sun, she would sleep until eight,
Then go to her garden and swing on the gate;

She’d talk to the squirrels and prune a few trees,
For these were traditions among the McGees.
Now Iris, not one to break with tradition,
Was the twelfth in her family to hold the position
Of “Ringer of Bells and Singer of Blues”
At the church two blocks east of the place she bought shoes.
She loved ringing bells, but the blues made her cry,
So she thought and she thought till she thought she knew why:

The bells gave her joy but the blues made her sad;
The blues made her cry but the bells made her glad!
So one Sunday, early, she told them the news:
She’d gladly play bells, but she’d sing no more blues.
It caused a great stir when the church heard about it,
But she said, “Sing the blues? I most seriously doubt it!
I can’t sing sad songs when my joy is so full!
I’m off to the belfry the bell ropes to pull!”

She climbed up the staircase and started to play,
And the townfolk said, “Iris is happy today!”
They started to hum and they started to smile,
And at the bus station they stood single file
With never a murmur at having to wait
For a bus that was always a half-hour late
(It took them to jobs in the next county over
Where they packed jars of honey from local-grown clover),

And even the corner policeman was singing,
For Iris McGee was again at her ringing.
For Iris had told them, “This day you must choose.”
And never again did the townfolk hear blues.
She rang all the bells till no more could be found;
She rang them each day until joy did abound,
And the townfolk, with laughter and joy their hearts brimming,
Left off riding buses and took up team swimming.


The moral of this poem might be “It is possible to have too much of a good thing.”

Or it might be “My mama done tol’ me, when I was in knee-pants, My mama done tol’ me, Son, a woman’ll sweet talk and give ya the big eye, but when the sweet talkin’s done, a woman’s a two-face, a worrisome thing who’ll leave ya to sing the blues in the night.” (Don’t send your complaints to me, send them to Johnny Mercer.)

Or the moral of this poem might be “Never try to make sense when you can leave your readers thoroughly confused.”

For a complete change of pace, read this.

Or perhaps you’d prefer to stare at a swatch of Yves Klein blue for a while.

Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout

...famously would not take the garbage out.

I know it’s hard to believe, but I was unaware of this fact/poem/ song/whatever it is until Shooting Parrots created a post today about its author, Shel Silverstein.

As my good deed for the day, I decided to share both the poem and Shooting Parrot’s post with you.

In addition, here are two cartoons from one of Shel Silverstein’s books, Uncle Shelby’s ABZ Book (if you need to, click on each cartoon to enlarge it):





To see a picture of Mr. Silverstein and learn a bit more about him, click here.