When I’m depressed, there’s one song that’s guarranteed to make me feel worse: “Don’t Speak” by No Doubt. Great, moving song. I understand it was #1 on the charts for three weeks when it first came out. I listened to it a half-dozen times while driving to work. Here are the lyrics I found at: http://homepage.ntlworld.com/gary.hart/lyricsn/no.html

You and me
We used to be together
Every day together, always
I really feel
That I’m losing my best friend
I can’t believe
This could be the end

It looks as though you’re letting go
And if it’s real, well I don’t want to know

Don’t speak
I know just what you’re saying
So please stop explaining
Don’t tell me ’cause it hurts

Don’t speak
I know what you’re thinking
I don’t need your reasons
Don’t tell me ’cause it hurts

Our memories
They can be inviting
But some are altogether
Mighty frightening

As we die, both you and I
With my head in my hands I sit and cry

Don’t speak
I know just what you’re saying
So please stop explaining
Don’t tell me ’cause it hurts
No, no, no
Don’t speak
I know what you’re thinking
And I don’t need your reasons
Don’t tell me ’cause it hurts

It’s all ending
I gotta stop pretending who we are

You and me
I can see us dying, are we

Don’t speak
I know just what you’re saying
So please stop explaining
Don’t tell me ’cause it hurts
No no don’t speak
I know what you’re thinking
And I don’t need your reasons
Don’t tell me ’cause it hurts
Don’t tell me ’cause it hurts
I know what you’re saying
So please stop explaining
Don’t speak, don’t speak, don’t speak
Oh I know what you’re thinking
And I don’t need your reasons
I know you’re good, I know you’re good, I know you’re real good
Oh la la la la la la la la, don’t, don’t

Push push darling
Push push darling
Push push don’t tell me ’cause it hurts
Push push darling
Push push darling
Push push don’t tell me ’cause it hurts

At Bastrop High School, we are entering the last six weeks of the school year. It’s hard to believe that the year is nearly gone. I’m contemplating what I’ve actually done for my students. I know many have learned much, actually learned more than they intended to, but for others, what I and they have accomplished is hard to measure. Several of my students have won money and recognition from winning essay contests—some appreciate this more than others—some I feel have barely made any progress. In fact, some may have regressed.

I must turn in grades today or tomorrow. The number of failing grades in my sophomore classes is mind bogling. I assure them that it’s nothing personal on my part, just simple math. Many of those failing are good kids, and I like them, but it’s rather sad to know that I care more about their bad grades than they do. I really do try to set them up to succeed, but I can’t do it for them, and I certainly can’t give them a grade they haven’t earned. That wouldn’t be fair to the ones who expended the effort to make decent grades. I think that sometimes the system feeds their apathy. For example, when I taught in Dallas, we weren’t allowed to record a grade lower than 50.

What am I to do about these students with these failing grades? I suppose I must give them what they’ve earned, then be ready for the fallout from the whining children, the few concerned parents, the several angry students and parents who can’t understand how an F is actually now part of their permanent records. I hate report card time. After they come out, I must plan a very busy class. A teacher really shouldn’t use class time to explain the grades given. These discussion always degenerate into a yah-yah and arguments. I don’t argue with students. I do say, “It’s nothing personal. It’s just simple math.”

My friend and fellow musician, Tom McCandlish, introduced me to a new band: Albannach. The word Albannach is Scottish for “Scotsman.” I’ve enjoyed their CD very much, and found their music to have a savage, primal feel to it—in a Celtic way—driven by pipes and drums. Ah, it stirs the blood of one’s Celtic ancestors. You can learn more about this Scottish band here: http://www.albannachonline.com/

I woke early again, like at 4 a.m. without an alarm. It was three a.m. yesterday though. Perhaps because I have so much on my mind, so much stress at work, plus stress of trying my best to be a disciplined and fruitful writer.  Actually, it was the rain that woke me this morning. Fit my mood perfectly: As I was paid yesterday, the first thing I did was rise and pay bills. No happy sunshine days for me lately. A spring rain has a certain rythym to it, and the pitter-patter this morning cast a certain mood:
Wake me rain,

Wash away her memory,

And the dried salt-streaks of tears,

Soften the hard and cracked

Black earth of my heart,

Rinse the septic wounds clean.

Saturday night, after a soiree honoring the Ferguson clan, the festival slowly began to wind down. I guess it was about ten when Tom and I returned to our hotel. I met so many cool people. Tom and I spent a good amount of time talking to a Scotsman, Mark Fowler, and his wife. Great couple. I found Mark witty, knowledgeable of history and culture, and an expert on Scotch whisky. And there were so many others.

Sunday, we returned to Monroe, my head brimming with memories of the festival. I also returned with lists of things to do, names of people I had met who I needed to contact quickly, and photographs I need to download and develop. The festival was a reminder of how I need to get out once in a while. The work will always be there, and I learned and experienced much from my weekend that is bound to have some value to my writing.

I’ve taken a day’s break from Civil War reading and picked up White Oleander by Janet Fitch. I had seen the movie and that piqued my interest in the novel. (Yes, I know, one should never judge a book by its movie!) I find the novel’s language beautiful, poetic, and the tone engaging. Two other books came to mind for some reason as I thought about how the tone of a book affects my interest in it: The Weight of Water and Angela’s Ashes. Anyway, you can read more of Janet Fitch, her works, and her bio here: http://literati.net/Fitch/index.htm

This morning I rose at 7:30 a.m. Tom and I had a continental breakfast at the Amerisuites Hotel where we’re staying. We saw several in kilts in the lobby who were already on their way to the festival, even though opening ceremonies weren’t until 10 a.m. We arrived at the Lamar Dixon Expo Center in Gonzales in time to see the parade of the clans and the honoring of the seven Celtic nations: Wales, Ireland, Scotland, Cornwall, Isle of Man, Galicia, and Brittany.

Tom and I visited with friends, listened to some great music, and watched some fantastic Irish and Scottish dancers. We strolled by the several vendor booths, examining and purchasing a little merchandise. After listening to the last public performance of Paisley Close, we visited with our good friends in that band, Sydney, Amy, Rabbit, Hobie, and Bernard, and wished them good fortune. We returned to the hotel around 3:00 p.m. to dress in our kilts and take a nap if possible. We had a few logistical problems, so there was no nap. We returned at 5:00 to the center, had a wonderful meal of white beans, jambalaya, boudin, bread, haggis, and King Cake. We heard some more music, participated in the Ceili after dinner, and visited some more with friends. Paisley Close was just beginning to feel the implications of this being their last public performance together. It was very much like a death: you feel it immediately, but you know the full feelings won’t register until later. I know they will grieve deeply, because it is obvioius they love each other deeply. Tom and I returned to our room by ten, our heads and hearts full of memories of the past two days.

We’ll rise early to return to Monroe tomorrow, returning to work and chores and responsibilities. Tomorrow night at 6 p.m. we’ll be on KEDM during Celtic Connections to raise money for the station. Wish us luck.

Tonight, Tom and I met with the Scottish Society here in Baton Rouge at their meeting place, off Airline Highway for a kickoff dinner. It is a great facility, with ample parking and the building is in a good location. The Scottish Society has generously offered to allow me to use their grounds (and they have a beautiful small landscaped courtyard) as a writing/resting place when I’m in Baton Rouge doing signings.

The sponsors of this weekend’s event were all there for a good time. We had a meal of jambalaya and white beans. It was delicious, and so good that I was too full to eat any dessert.  Tom played his celtic drum and sang, and I played my Guild guitar and sang some as well. Our friends from Paisley Close (from Houston) were there, and we played some music with them. I found the Scottish Society here to be friendly and hospitable, and in true South Louisiana fashion, they were here to have a good time.  I had my first McEwans Scotch Ales tonight. A VERY potent concoction, about 8% alcohol. Tomorrow looks like a very full day. I can’t wait to see what lies in store.

Tonight was the fifth night of the series that I’m the facilator for, Battlefield Louisiana. We discussed Kate Stone’s Diary, Brokenburn. As usual, attendance was great and the discussion lively. The evening literally flew by. I’m so enjoying this pilot series, that I can hardly believe it’s over next Thursday. My supervisor, Jim Secreto, with the Louisiana Endowment for the Humanities, was also there and contributed a great deal to the discussion. I was impressed that he had read and absorbed the book we were reading.

I’ve made many new friends in this series, and I’ve learned much more than I intended to. Next week, we will review a book entitled, The Civil War in Louisiana. Tomorrow, I’m headed for Gonzales, Louisiana, with my fellow musician Tom McCandlish, for the SwampCelts Festival. It will be a busy weekend, but I’ll post something each night if the hotel we’re at has wireless.

As I was doing busy work related to my writing business on my iBook tonight, I watched the movie, Tombstone again. All my life, I’ve loved good cowboy movies. Every time I visit my parents in Kemp, Oklahoma, I’m reminded of that, for they only watch three types of tv: wrestling, soap operas, and westerns. (The Western Channel is on constantly). There’s something about this movie that keeps drawing me back to it. Tonight, I noticed some particular lines. I found the movie’s script here: http://www.imsdb.com/scripts/Tombstone.html

Here are the lines that got my attention tonight. It’s the scene where Wyatt and Josephine “accidentally” run into each other:

JOSEPHINE
Oh look, I haven’t got time to be
Proper, I want to live.  I’m a
woman, I like men.  If that’s
Unladylike then I guess I’m not a
Lady.  At least I’m honest.

WYATT
Well you’re different, no arguing
That.  But you’re a lady all right.
I’ll take my oath on it.

He looks at her, enchanted, but suddenly his face clouds.

JOSEPHINE
What’s wrong?

WYATT
I don’t know, doesn’t make any
Sense.  I almost can’t look at
You.  Like it hurts.

JOSEPHINE
I know, me too.  What should we do
About it?

And if you’ve seen the movie, you know the happy ending and what they did about it.

Tomorrow night is the fifth meeting of our reading group at the Winnsboro Public Library for the program, Battlefield Louisiana: The Louisiana Experience During the Civil War.  The series is generously sponsored by Louisiana Endowment for the Humanities. Tonight, we discuss Brokenburn: The Journal of Kate Stone 1861-1868.  This is a Civil War classic, and truly valuable for understanding life at the homefront in Louisiana. The book is filled with information that will keep the most diligent researching or chasing down words, places, people, and details.

For example, the book mentions Miss Mollie Moore, who was known as “the Texas song bird.” She was a poet of some renown in those days, and she came to visit Tyler, Texas, about the same time that the Stone family were refugees there. I managed to find one of her poems. Here it is:

Of the Time for Mirth.

                “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven….A time to weep and a time to laugh.”—Bible. 

We know the time to mourn—we know when tears 
Swell ‘neath the eyelids—and when sighs have birth;
We know the time, amid life’s glooms and fears,
For grief—but oh!  when is the time for mirth? 

We marked the shrinking cheek, the paling brow,  
As they we loved passed to the “viewless bourne.”
We saw the shadows press—the tide ebb low—    
We need no task—we know the time to mourn! 

We see our idols crumble on their shrines, 
We feel our fancies wither like the morn,
We see each star grow clouded where it shines,   
Alas!   We know too well the time to mourn! 

We know the time to mourn—we feel the knell         
That sends its clanging echoes o’er the earth
He bid us weep—we know the time—But tell,      
Oh life—canst tell our hearts the time for mirth. 

Is it when household bands group round the door       
At eventide, to watch the sun go down?
When twilight shadows dusk the shining floor, 
And day, with all its weary cares, is gone? 

Say is it then? alas!  what band is whole?              
What hearthstone hath not felt its secret pain?
What household group can hear the curfew toll,     
And think not sadly on its “broken chain?” 

When is the time for mirth?  is it when gay              
And joyous music fills the banquet hall,
And glancing forms, like airy meteors, stray      
And hope and youth and beauty crown them all? 

Not there!  for not a heart that gathers there,       
But hath a steel-beaked vulture at its core,
That feeds while yet the fair cheek seems so fair,       
While yet the young feet kiss the festal floor? 

When is the time for mirth?  is it when bells            
Awake the breathing millions of the earth
With “Victory,” and loud the pean swells    
Its pride?  Oh life!  is that a time for mirth? 

Ah no!  far, far, upon the rough field lying,            
How many sleep the last, the dreamless sleep!
And you proud banner in the free winds flying         
How red it gleams!  so crimson!  let it sweep— 

And let it sweep—and let the bells peal on, 
And let the glad cry rouse the echoing earth!
But dirges, for the brave, the lost, the gone,              
Will come—and ah!  when is the time for mirth? 

Is it when sunshine lies along the grass,   
And roses in the sunshine gaily bloom?
When fragrant jasmines climb the rail?  alas!       
The shades, the groping shadows—how they come! 

We know the time for grief—we know when tears 
Will swell the eyelids, and when sights have birth,
Too oft it comes, griefs, hour, too oft it nears            
Our hearts, but oh!  when is the time for mirth?                                                                      
                Mollie E. Moore.
Tyler, Smith county, Texas, Dec. 7, 1863. 

I found this poem at: http://www.uttyler.edu/vbetts/tyler%201863-1865.htm

Tom and I just learned a new Scottish song for our Scots-Irish band, Angus Dubhghall. Tom likes to think of us as more Scot, and since I’m Welsh, I favor learning more Irish songs. Please don’t try to follow my illogic on that, as you’ll likely go mad. The song we learned was “The Ballad of Glencoe.”  The song is composed by Jim McLean in 1963 and tells of the notorious massacre of the MacDonald clan in February 1692.  To give you a feel for the song, I’ve included the chorus here:

O cruel is the snow that sweeps Glencoe

And covers the grave of Donald

And cruel was the foe that raped Glencoe

And murdered the house o’Macdonald.

This is a great ballad, and several bands, including Smithfield Fair, have put it to music.  It is a great ballad to use to teach high school students. You can find the lyrics and background information about the ballad here: http://www.rampantscotland.com/songs/blsongs_glencoe.htm