I’ve always liked the poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay, the first woman to win the Pulitzer, and one known for her unconventional and bohemian lifestyle.  I intend to read her biography soon. Here’s a poem of hers I found at:  http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/ednamillay/8146

Well, I have lost you; and I lost you fairly;
In my own way, and with my full consent.
Say what you will, kings in a tumbrel rarely
Went to their deaths more proud than this one went.
Some nights of apprehension and hot weeping
I will confess; but that’s permitted me;
Day dried my eyes; I was not one for keeping
Rubbed in a cage a wing that would be free.
If I had loved you less or played you slyly
I might have held you for a summer more,
But at the cost of words I value highly,
And no such summer as the one before.
Should I outlive this anguish—and men do—
I shall have only good to say of you.

My schedule is starting to fill up with TV and radio interviews, signings, and appearances. I’ll try to post a detailed schedule in the next day or two as there have been some changes in the schedule I posted earlier.

*Here is a short blurb from someone who attended one of my readings at the Lincoln Parish Library in Ruston, Louisiana. I was promoting my book, Stories of the Confederate South.

Rickey,

Thank you for your recent presentation at the Lincoln Parish Library. It was a pleasure to hear you read from your own work and to learn how you researched your characters for the short stories. I have now had an opportunity to read and enjoy the entire collection of tales. What a delight!

You have truly caputured the spirit of the Confederate South through your characters. (It’s about time somebody did!) You bring life to the reality that our Southern ancestors lived. Thank you!

I would like to talk with you again about writing Southern tales.

Your Confederate friend,

Sarah

Authors should keep up with all reviews and blurbs of their work.

Here is a review of my book of short fiction, Stories of the Confederate South that was printed February 6, 2006, in the Butternut News, a newsletter SCV members in north Louisiana utilized for a while for communication and unity efforts:

It isn’t often that the Butternut News is included to review books that should be reviewed by such luminous tombs such as the New York Times or the Atlanta Constitution but the opportunity fell in my lap last month.  Compatriot Rickey Pittman of the Thomas McGuire camp in West Monroe has published a book of short stories entitled Stories of the Confederate South.

I’ll tell you up front that I have never been a big fan of short stories no matter who they are written by.  It has always seemed that just when something is starting to happen, it’s all over.  Well, I am going to have to change my stance on this matter.  I thoroughly enjoyed Rickey’s book.  Not all of the stories were set in the days of the Second Revolutionary War and that kind of surprised me when I first started to read.  No matter, all of the stories were interesting and all concerned us and our heritage.

With any collection of events some read better than others and, of course, I had my favorite ones.  I truly believe that these could stand up against Conan Doyle in holding you there until the end comes.  I heartily endorse Compatriot Pittman’s writings and his book.  I recommend that you buy it and buy a couple to give to your friends.

Good reading,

Thomas E. Taylor
Northeast Brigade Commander
Louisiana Division, Sons of Confederate Veterans

“Duty is ours; consequences are Gods”

P.S.  The cover shot was taken at the 140th Franklin and came from the camera of David Hill, Commander of the Richard Taylor Camp in Shreveport, La.

In the days when I had time, I used to like to hunt for Civil War Relics. I have two metal detectors–a Fisher 1266 and a Tracker IV Bounty Hunter. I do believe there are still  some finds awaiting the persistent and the diligent.

I’ve done pretty well in the past, not so well lately. Being a successful “digger” requires time, some resources for travel, a lot of research, and much walking. As the easy places are all gone now, and so many are protected by the Park system, you must go to a good bit of trouble to find a good site to metal detect. As an example of how one’s interests can lead to money ideas, I sold an article on the topic to a national magazine. “The Quest for Forgotten Camps,” Western-Eastern Treasure, October 1999. I’ve changed computers, but if I find the article I’ll post it here.
So, the writing lesson for today is to pay attention to what you like to do, express it well in writing, and then sell your work.  If you have any questions on metal detecting, drop me a note at rickeyp@bayou.com  I’ll try to answer them.

Last night I went to Enoch’s, our town’s Irish pub to hear Jeffrey Phillips perform.  Tom and Wayne from the Scottish Society were also recording the evening for a live CD.  And as usual when at Enoch’s, my friends and I discussed Irish and Scottish politics and the historical oppression of the English. I woke up thinking of that discussion.  Sometime ago, I wrote this short-short story about a girl in the Irish Republican Army for a contest. It’s about 1,200 words.  Let me know what you think of it. rickeyp@bayou.com.
A GIFT FROM ERIN

WHEN THE TRAIN FROM NEW HAVEN STOPPED AT GREENWICH, FIONA SPOTTED A MAILBOX ON THE TRAIN PLATFORM. She told the conductor she’d be right back and exited the train, briefcase and coffee in hand. She dropped a letter addressed to her sister, Martina, now in Maghaberry Prison in Northern Ireland, and then walked back to the train.
After returning to her seat, she laid her briefcase in her lap, and drained the Starbucks café au lait. She searched the blank eyes of the travelers waiting on the train platform. All seemed distant, as if they sought to look through her, beyond her. None appeared to be policemen. She felt suspicious about one man, but when his eyes met hers, he indifferently raised his newspaper.
“Wall Street bastard,” she whispered. “Just like the Fleet Street English.” She remembered the suited British detective who had arrested her sister last year in New York’s Grand Central Station, then taken her in handcuffs on the next flight to Belfast. At her trial, Martina was given a life sentence for her supposed role in a bombing. When Fionna heard of her sister’s extradition, she promptly joined the IRA and was given the task of raising money in America for guns and assistance to IRA children whose parents were being brutalized in British jails. At Yale, she had mounted an effective letter writing campaign to encourage the many IRA POW’s, and this past summer had gone to Cuba for special training. The result of that training now lay in her lap—a briefcase full of gelignite, a present for a visiting British diplomat—a gift from Erin. The Englishman was scheduled to deliver a speech outside Grand Central Station at two o’clock. Fionna had been directed to get as close as she could, and at 1:55 p.m., set the briefcase down and walk away. A pre-set digital timer would ensure the death of another enemy of Ireland.
She lifted her wrist and looked at her watch. It was only noon. She should reach
Manhattan ahead of schedule.
Across the isle sat an old man with a long, white beard. Next to him sat a young girl. The little one held an hourglass, holding it up and giggling as she watched the sand flow down.
The image brought her grandfather to mind. Fionna had gone to Ireland to visit him one summer at his small farm outside Baliná. One day she helped him in his garden. As he hoed, she followed, scattering seed along the shallow furrow. When they finished planting, her grandfather scooped up a handful of the sandy soil and let it run through his hand. “I am glad you came to see me. I wish Martina could have come.”
“She’s busy, Da.”
“Yes, I’m sure the Irish Republican Army keeps her very busy. But those she has chosen to work with will bring her and our family nothing but grief. Life is too short to give yourself to a cause one cannot win.”
Shaking her head to clear away the daydream, she whispered, “We will win this struggle, grandfather, we ourselves.”
At Portchester, a young man boarded and sat next to her. “Hello,” he said.
An Irish accent. Christ, she thought, these Irish buggers are everywhere. After she opened a copy of An Phoblacht/Republican News, he said, “An Irish girl, are you?”
“Yes.”
“Name’s Seamus,” he said. “And you?”
“Fionna.”
“I come from Ulster. Where is your family?”
“Baliná.”
He glanced at the newspaper. “Are you with the IRA?”
“What’s it to you?”
“I don’t care much for them. They knee-capped my brother with a Black and Decker drill when he wouldn’t join.”
“I am sorry for your brother, but war always has casualties. Every soldier knows that. Besides, if you want to compare bad treatment, I could tell you of how the British broke my sister’s jaw when they arrested her.”
“Sinn Fein is not an army. They’re a bunch of thugs.”
“Why don’t you fuck off if you don’t like my politics. Anyone truly Irish is committed to uniting all of Ireland. Only then will Ireland have peace.”
“You’re living in a dream-world. The Irish, even Irish-Americans, won’t support the IRA anymore. You try to look like noble freedom fighters, but running drugs and guns and killing innocent people with sniping and bombs make you look like terrorists. Anyway, let’s change the subject. I don’t like arguing with a pretty girl. Where are you going?”
She looked out the window. The train still had not pulled out of Portchester. “To Grand Central Station. I’m going to leave a gift with someone. And you?”
“I’m going to hear the SallyMacs. They’re an Irish band from Memphis playing at some reception for an English big-wig.”
“He’s a British diplomat.” Glancing at her wristwatch, Fionna saw the time had not changed since Greenwich. “Damn it,” she said. Slipping the watch off her arm, she shook it, then banged it against the window. The second hand still would not move. “My watch has stopped. I’ve got a deadline, and I don’t want to be late. What time do you have?”
“I forgot my watch this morning, Colleen. Sorry.”
“Don’t call me a Colleen. My name’s Fionna.” She leaned toward the old man across from them. “Sir, do you know what time it is?”
He shook his head. “But it’s always later than we think.”
“Shit,” she said as she slumped back into her seat. “Crazy old man.” Finally the train began moving, and after what seemed an eternity, pulled into Grand Central Station. Seamus left his seat before the train stopped and stood at the door, talking to the conductor. They both turned and looked at Fionna, and Seamus smiled and shouted, “Erin go bragh!”
As soon as Fionna stepped out of the train, a Transit Officer stepped in front of her.
“Miss, please come with me,” he said.
“What’s the problem?”
“I’m sure there’s nothing to it, but a passenger complained that you attempted to sell him drugs. We are obligated to check these things out, so please follow me.”
He led her to a small room and pointed to a chair. “Have a seat. A female officer will join us in a few minutes.”
After several minutes, Fionna said, “Look, I resent this harassment, and I have no intention of being strip-searched. You Americans better wake up and see the rights you’re losing.”
“I’m sorry, Miss. Things here have changed greatly since 9-11.”
“There’s an appointment I’ve got to keep, and you’re going to cause me to be late. You better have a hell of a good lawyer.” She cursed herself for not bringing her pistol with its silencer. “What time do you have?”
“It’s 1:59. What time is your appointment?”
Fionna glanced at her briefcase and laughed. “Two o’clock.”
“What’s so funny?” the officer asked.
“You’ve had anti-terrorist training?”
“Yes.”
She handed him the briefcase. “So you know what gelignite is. I intended to present this to a British diplomat. It’s a gift from Erin and the Irish Republican Army.”
“Shit!” he said.
Fionna glanced at her watch. The second hand was now moving.

This weekend I’m working at the Mayhaw Festival in Marion Louisiana. The festival began last night with a street dance. I shared a booth with the Elijah Ward Camp of the Sons of Confederate Veterans. Though my children’s book is now printed and I have my author copies, I do not have copies to sell yet, so I am just selling Red River Fever and Stories of the Confederate South at the Festival.  Hoping to spark conversation with folks about my book, the SCV, and the Scottish Society, I wore my kilt.
Did you know that Mayhaw jelly is the official state jelly of Louisiana? The berry is not desirable to eat raw, but it does make a delicious pie or jelly. Gathering mayhaws seems to be a laborious and  intensive task. You can read more about the Mayhaw here: http://www.mayhaw.org/

This morning I’m off to the festival again in just a few minutes. I’m going to march in Confederate uniform in the festival parade with the other members of the Sons of Confederate Veterans and fire my musket for the South. After the parade, I’ll be selling books again. I’ll stay at the festival as long as there is traffic. Then tonight, I’ve agree to go to Enoch’s with Tom to hear Jeffrey Phillips, an Irish-American performer.

Here is a subject I’m often asked to address. This article of mine was published in Teachers of Vision Vol. XLIX, No. 1 Back to School 2003. p. 6. (A publication of Christian Educators Association International.) I hope you like it.

Christians have all heard it said from pulpit and in print, “They (whoever they are) have taken the Bible out of the public schools and forbidden us to teach it.” Such statements are nonsense, propaganda, designed to create a fear of and resentment toward public education. While it is true the Bible does not occupy the strategic position it once held in education, government, and society, ANY teacher may teach their students much more about the Bible than he or she realizes. After teaching English literature in public schools and universities for nine years, I have learned several strategies that will help teachers raise Biblical and cultural literacy in their students.

While law and government policies and societal mores have been a factor in the Bible’s lost presence in public education, actually, the most significant cause of the loss of the scripture’s presence is ignorance. Today, an appalling ignorance of the Bible exists on the part of teachers and students. There is also an ignorance of the significant role the Bible plays in understanding the literature of Western Civilization.

A teacher today has ample opportunity to teach rich facts and insights found in the scriptures simply by the careful instruction of literature. In fact, I would argue that one can’t fully understand British and American literature without a Biblical background. Our literature is full of allusions to Judo-Christian history, people, and scriptures. To not have a Biblical background is to not fully grasp the significance of the poetry, short stories, and novels that our government requires our students to study. Think about the many allusions filling the works of Milton, John Donne, Shakespeare and even modern writers, such as Hawthorne and Faulkner. Many times each week as we study literature in my classroom, I often say something like, “This line, passage, or word is an allusion to something in the Bible. Who can tell me what this refers to?” If the students don’t know, and they usually don’t, I supply the explanation, complete with Biblical reference. In the teaching of Literature lies a Christian’s opportunity to teach the Bible.
For example, consider Singer’s short story, “Gimpel the Fool.” The Jewish and Christian imagery is rich and complex, and the pathetic story of Gimpel’s cruel and immoral wife is an obvious allusion to the prophet Hosea. A teacher can’t teach Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter without teaching about the Puritans and how their thinking was influenced by their fanatical Calvinistic philosophy and how their efforts to control sin actually made sin more powerful.

Ignorance of the Bible is not difficult to discover in the classroom. I always ask my students, especially the more overtly religious ones, “How many have read the whole Bible?” Tragically, after nine years of teaching, I have had no student affirm that he or she has read the whole Bible. When I share with them how I have read the entire Bible over 200 times and have translated the Greek New Testament into English, they can hardly believe it. This reveals a significant problem that exists in even the most fundamental churches in today’s society. Church and home education have moved away from whole Bible teaching and reading to trendy topics and issues that focus on the same few scriptures time and time again. Many of my students are zealous for their faith and very committed to God, but when I question them regarding the Biblical (both Old and New testaments) allusions in literature, they are at a loss. Unfortunately, many of my students confess that much of scriptural material I present to them is new. As you can see, it is not the government that has taken the Bible out.

Scriptural content is not only found in literature. A study of drama reveals that playwrights through the ages possessed an amazing knowledge of the scriptures. Another interesting issue of the importance of a Biblical education is seen in the typical high school study of Shakespeare. I have noticed that the students who could or had worked through the King James Version had a much easier time with Shakespeare’s language. I love the modern translations, but in my writing and teaching, I still use the Authorized version, for that is the version of British and American literature.

True, legally, and I think ethically, a teacher must not proselytize his or her students in classroom situations. Nor do I allow my religious students to hold an evangelical campaign in my class. My classroom is designed to promote thought and learning skills; my lessons are designed to raise the academic abilities and cultural literacy of the students. When a teacher is heavy-handed in matters of the soul, the pressure backfires and the teacher is resented and not respected. Additionally, one should have confidence in the silent power the scriptures possess. Bible verses can effectively perform their Hebrews 4:12 work on their own in just the sharing. Students already have state-approved organizations in public schools, such as the Christian Fellowship of Athletes, that can help the students as well with their social and evangelical needs.

An effective education requires a balance. Knowledge and use of the Bible will help a student’s education to be well rounded. Yet, though we often have a great zeal to communicate the scriptures, we must be careful to avoid a tendency to dismiss or take lightly the other important elements of education a child needs from history, science, the arts—and yes, even exposure to views contrary to the Christian view. I feel secure enough in my beliefs to examine or look at opposing points of view. If I’m right and my thinking and learning is sound, what is there to fear? Answering challenges and reasoning through problem areas should only strengthen one’s faith, not cause its loss. We should expect such challenges and rise to meet them. Yet, we must be prepared. It is truly sad when the authors of literature or skeptics attack scripture and seem to know more about biblical subjects than Christians do.

Teachers too, need to be well rounded. I know that many fundamentalists might argue that the Bible is all that is needed in education. This Puritan notion is ridiculous, a mindset resembling the Taliban who virtually have banned anything educational, artistic, and cultural from their society except for the Koran. Everything a teacher knows can matter in the classroom, including what they know about the scriptures. Students in this apathetic age need teachers who know literature and the scriptures, and they need teachers who know how to use them both effectively to open, probe, challenge, and broaden the minds of the young disciples they instruct. If the teacher knows and teaches literature well, he or she has ample opportunity to expose students to the scriptures.

I am so excited about the publication of my children’s book, Jim Limber Davis: A Black Orphan in the Confederate White House. Last night, I was interviewed live for 30-40 minutes on a national online radio station, www.dixiebroadcasting.com. This station has a rapidly growing audience, and if you’re interested in the South, its history, and in issues currently facing the South, you should tune in. Of the 10,000 or so stations online, Dixie Broadcasting has been rated #36! If you missed the interview, you can find and download it by clicking on the Pelican Pages Segment. It should be available in about a week. Look for either my name, Rickey Pittman, or for Jim Limber Davis: A Black Orphan in the Confederate White House.
Here is the publisher’s description of my children’s book that they posted on Amazon.

Book Description
The true story of the adopted black child of Jefferson Davis.
Jim Limber Davis was rescued from an abusive guardian by Varina Davis when he was only five years old. Jefferson and Varina Davis welcomed him into their home, the Confederate White House, as one of the family, and Jim lived with them until the fall of the Confederacy.

When Union soldiers invaded Richmond, Virginia, they captured Jefferson Davis. Later, they kidnapped Jim Limber in Georgia and spread cruel rumors that he was Jefferson Davis’s slave. This true story provides a glimpse of how Jim was accepted as one of the Davis’s children and reveals their family’s love and compassion for him.

About the Author
Rickey E. Pittman, 1998 grand prize winner of the prestigious Ernest Hemingway Short Story Competition, is an active member of the Sons of Confederate Veterans. He is also a Civil War reenactor, a public speaker on issues and topics related to the War Between the States, and a musician who travels and performs original and Civil War-period music. The inspiration to write Jim Limber Davis: A Black Orphan in the Confederate White House came from a chance discovery of Jim Limber Davis’s existence. Pittman proceeded with the encouragement of friends and the desire to provide reading audiences with an “accurate book written from a Southern perspective” among “the politically driven, and often historically inaccurate materials currently available on the Civil War.”

Born in 1952 in Dallas, Texas, Pittman earned a bachelor’s degree in New Testament Greek and a master’s degree in English from Abilene Christian University. His prolific writing career took off after graduation; he produced numerous plays, works of nonfiction, collections of poetry, and short stories. After moving to Monroe, Louisiana, Pittman was added to the Louisiana Roster of Artists in 1998. Working closely with regional art councils, he was commissioned to write historical plays for Franklin and Madison Parishes.

Pittman is an enthusiast of many types of music, and he is also a singer, guitarist, and songwriter for Angus Doubhghall, a local Scots-Irish band.

Judith Hierstein believes that “pictures should begin where the written word ends.” She encourages children to share in her love of learning about other cultures through illustrated books. Ms. Hierstein holds a B.A. in art from the University of Iowa. A former elementary-school teacher, she now teaches high-school graphic and media arts. She sees digital art as “another exciting media to explore when illustrating for children.” Aside from teaching and learning,Hierstein has also illustrated a number of children’s books for Pelican Publishing. Ms. Hierstein resides in Tucson, Arizona.

Here is the Amazon link for my book: http://www.amazon.com/Jim-Limber-Davis-Orphan-Confederate/dp/158980435X/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1/102-4008325-1560968?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1177553009&sr=1-1

Tonight, Wednesday, May 9, at 9:00 p.m. Central Time, I’ll be interviewed live by Ray McBerry, the founder and president of Dixie Broadcasting. This free and live online station has become a powerful voice of the South. I’ll be discussing my writing, especially my children’s book, Jim Limber Davis: A Black Orphan in the Confederate White House, and my collection of short historical fiction, Stories of the Confederate South.
Tune in if you can. You can listen to the live broadcast and interview here: www.dixiebroadcasting.com

One of the most beautiful paintings I’ve ever seen is The Meeting on the Turret Stairs
by Frederick William Burton (Irish, 1816-1900). According to the link I have below, the painting is in the National Gallery of Ireland. According to one source I wrote about this piece of Burton’s art, the painting is “an illustration of an episode from a Danish ballad, translated by Whitley Stokes and published in Fraser’s Magazine in January, 1855. It shows the final parting of Hellelil and her bodyguard, Hildebrand, the Prince of Engellend. Their tragic affair results in the slaying of seven of Hellelil’s brothers by Hildebrand, and his own death at the hand of the youngest.” I was so moved by the painting and the story that I wrote the poem I’m posting in this blog.
You can see the painting here: http://www.midnight-muse.com/1fbmeet.htm

For some more discussion on this painting , go to: http://www.wetcanvas.com/forums/archive/index.php/t-149.html

Here’s my poem that the painting inspired. I call it “Chanson.”

CHANSON

The story of the painting is sad,
A tale of a tragic love,
Born in conflict, recklessness and lust,
The kind that lasts forever,
The kind with no happy ending.

Six times he had battled brother-protectors,
Six times they had said goodbye,
Six times he had returned to her alive.
One brother is left.
This time, the brother will return.

That’s us in the painting,
You are the princess, and
I, the desperate, doomed,
Mesmerized knight,
About to fight a last battle.
Like them . . .
We ascended an ancient,
Winding iron staircase
Into a dark balcony corner for a hurried, last embrace.

You are amative,
An inamorata,
The perfect beauty,
My beau ideal.
You slide your hand into mine,
And I, a moonstruck amorist,
Flattered and ennobled,
Am dissolved by your touch.
My heart is so enflamed, I fear
It will burn to ashes.

You are a chanson,
The French love song
I could never write.
Your brown eyes are the counterpoint,
Your soft voice the descant,
Layering the melody of
Love’s subjective mysticism.
The music fills my empty, aching heart,
And though my poetry is sad,
The song you give me tonight is not.

Two lovers in a dark balcony corner
Makes a beautiful painting,
But, you and I, we’re only a tableau,
A frozen moment on a rented stage,
Mirroring two unknown lovers’ tragedy,
Words fail us.
Like her, you turn your head,
And I, I’ve lost the battle already,
We both know I can’t return.