This weekend I’ll be performing and storytelling at the Celtic Fest Mississippi in Jackson. My friend Tom and I (we call ourselves Angus Dubhghall) are performing 4 times, at 11 p.m. Friday, 10 a.m. and 10 p.m. Saturday; and at 11:30 a.m. on Sunday. I’m also scheduled to do storytelling and music 11:30 a.m.n and 4:00 p.m. Saturday, and 3:30 p.m. on Sunday. I’ll also be showing and signing my new Scottish Alphabet children’s book. I checked Ingram and orders for the book have been pouring in!  Needless to say, I’ll be very busy this weekend. You can find the site for this fabulous festival here.  I hope you explore the site. You can download a schedule, and you can view other festival participants. I’ll have my laptop with me (we’re supposed to be in the Cabot Lodge in downtown Jackson) so I’ll try to post some news and pics of the festival. I am looking forward to hearing and meeting some of these Celtic celebrities who will be performing!  There should be tons of Celtic crafts as well.

At ULM I’m teaching ENG 205, American Literature till 1865. This is the first time I’ve taught the course,  and I’m both enjoying and learning more than I expected. One focal point in my studies (possibly perverse and indicative of serious personality and pathological problems) is my fascination with the Puritans. Maybe it’s my religious upbringing. Maybe it was the bad experiences I had as an adult with a certain religious group in New York City. Anyway, currently I’m attempting to help my students understand the mindset and world of the Puritans. For example, here are some notes on Puritan laws I’ll be presenting. If you teach Arthur Miller’s The Crucible in high school or college, you may want to use this list. The information was gleaned from a variety of sources.

Examples of Puritan Laws: (There are so many more, but these should give you insights into their thinking)

1. Beachcombing is illegal.
2.Hunting ducks is illegal. (If you’re a bad shot, they thought you would waste resources and time)
3. Drama/theatre, erotic poetry, and religious music, gambling, are banned. (Remember, these are the ones who closed down Shakespeare’s theatre.)
4. Any form of idleness or laziness. (Yawn . . . I’m sorry! I’m sorry!)
5. Swearing, sleeping during sermons, skipping church will be punished.
6. Long hair will not be tolerated. (Must be why the Cavalier Poets fought with Charles I. I would NOT like the Roundhead Puritan haircut! You can see a painting of a Roundhead here:
7. Gluttony is forbidden.
8. Religious instruction is required for all, as well as public fasting, austere living, and evening curfew. (According to one town’s records, a man was imprisoned for three days for smiling during a baptism.)
Entertainments, theaters, festivals, were banned and the Puritans prescribed the death penalty for sex outside of marriage. Lord Macaulay said the Puritans “hated bear-baiting, not because it gave pain to the bear, but because it gave pleasure to the spectators.” The Puritans also opposed dancing, drinking, card playing, gambling, listening to certain types of music, reading novels or poetry, rolling dice, going to horse races, wearing jewelry and makeup, or having thoughts relating to sexual pleasure.
9.The celebration of Christmas was even forbidden in Massachusetts on pain of a five-shilling fine. In England, the Puritan Parliament “prohibited the observance of Christmas, Easter, Whitsunday, saints’ days and holy days.”
8. All work, play, brewing, and travel were forbidden on Sunday (which they called the Sabbath). There was even a debate on whether a man could be rescued from a well on that day. Folks were punished for picking strawberries, playing cards, smoking, and sailing. In 1670, a couple was brought to trial for “sitting together on the Lord’s Day under an apple tree.” Sex on Sunday was out of the question. This was particularly a problem for children born on Sunday, because Puritans believed that people were born on the same day on which they were conceived. Sunday-born children were sometimes denied baptism for this reason. A minister name Israel Loring was very strict in this regard until his own wife gave birth to twins on a Sunday.

Punishments for violating Puritan laws included fines, imprisonment, pillory, stocks, whipping, hanging, tar and feathering, ears being cut off, occasionally burning, and once in America, a man was drawn and quartered, ducking stool (reserved for women who gossip or ridicule their husbands) and humiliation (wearing letters indicating your crime etc.,) and even a hot awl through your tongue if you spoke against religion.

A Small Rant Against Puritanism

Existing Sunday Blue Laws are a hangover from those Puritan days. So is our government’s and society’s compulsion to create laws AGAINST everything. The mountain of laws we create in our effort to legislate morality is a control and power issue as well as a tax/fund-raising strategy. The ideas we promote of inflicting humiliation and increasingly more severe punishments are straight out of this dark Puritan mindset. Such thinking is just an excuse to  justify cruelty against our fellow human beings. While we may not want a theocracy like the Puritans did, the Big Brother-ocracy of Big Government many want is just as bad a replacement. (Please read Orwell’s novel, 1984 if you haven’t.) Such a mindset was repulsive and ineffective then, and it will be today as well.

I Made the News!

Well, I somehow made the news again. Read about it here:

The rain-bands that circled through Monroe from Gustav pounded us with inches of rain and gusts of wind. Monroe is packed with refugees, and every hotel is filled to capacity. The shelters are too. Though I was fortunate because I didn’t lose power, last night Gustav left me a personal calling card. A gust of wind snapped a huge pine tree in half in my backyard. I’m so lucky that it didn’t hit the house. It did take out my phone line. It will be a major expense of time and money to get my yard cleaned up. Here is a photo, though the fallen pine tree covered so much of my backyard that I couldn’t get it all in the photo. How sad to think this ancient pine that has survived nearly 100 years and was healthy had to perish like this.

Here is a photo of me and Teresa Gordan, the owner of Daily Harvest Bakery & Deli in Monroe. This was taken last Saturday. Standing with us is Teresa’s Little Baker Man (made of wood). Last week I saw a little boy give the Little Baker Man a kiss. That was a Kodac moment I’m sorry I missed. I so enjoy performing at Daily Harvest. Teresa’s cookbook is out and it is beautiful! I’ll be performing again September 13. If you’re in the area, please come. Again, I’ll be there from about 9:00 a.m. to 1:00-2:00 p.m.

Steps to Prepare a Manuscript for MLA Style

Introduction: It is vital that high school and college English students know how to present their manuscript in MLA (Modern Language Association) style. In my classes, penalties are high for failing to follow MLA manuscript guidelines. There are many sites that give specifics (do a search on MLA style and bibliography), but when I have computers available, here are the steps I have my students follow. I begin with a statement: “Don’t do anything till I tell you. Then follow directions.” Good students know to follow instructions immediately, the first time they are given. I use the preset Microsoft Word margins. The students are creating a template by this exercise that they can copy for each paper. So, once they follow these steps, they never have to recreate the correct form again. I realize that the newest version of Word (which I don’t have yet) will follow different guidelines I will post those too when I get it. This is Word 2004 for MAC, which is good for 1993-2003 Word versions. Teachers may use these notes freely if you credit this site.

Creating Your MLA Manuscript Template

1. Go to VIEW, select PAGE VIEW or PRINT VIEW.

2. Go to VIEW, select HEADER AND FOOTER. You’ll see a cursor flashing in the bar on the left. Hit tab twice. The cursor will go to the far right. Type in your last name, hit the space bar once, and click on the number icon (#) on the far left. Your pages will automatically number themselves now.

3. Go to FORMAT. Pull down to PARAGRAPH. Click on to LINE SPACING. Select DOUBLE SPACE. Click on OKAY. Everything in MLA is double-spaced. Setting it up to do it now will save you grief and unwanted spaces later.

4. Now you create your HEADER. Type in First and last name. Hit return. Type in your course. Hit return. Type in your instructor’s name, return, and then the date. Note that many instructors have slight variations in guidelines for the header. For example, in some classes, I ask students to list the assignment. Hit return ONCE.

5. Click on the center icon on the ribbon, or go to paragraph, click on ALIGNMENT and select CENTER. Type in your title. Hit return. click on LEFT justification icon, or go to PARAGRAPh, click on ALIGNMENT and select LEFT.

6. Hit TAB once. Type in these words:

This is my introduction paragraph, and this first sentence is my HOOK sentence, designed to capture the reader’s attention. The second sentence is my THESIS, and this sentence clearly states my argument, and it is best to have three clear points in my because a thesis sentence is like the three points of a sermon, it is a blueprint to help me organize my paper, and it reveals the logic of my argument.

Now, hit RETURN, then TAB. Type the following words:

This is my first body paragraph. This will concern the first point stated in my thesis sentence. The whole paragraph will have at least five sentences. The second-fourth sentences are written to illustrate or prove my first point. The other body sentences under this can be examples, sub-points, or questions that illustrate or prove my points. The final sentence is a conclusion sentence that nails down my point.

Now, hit TAB and type this:

This is my second body paragraph. This will concern the second point of my argument (my thesis). The first sentence can/should have some sort of transitional thought that connects my reasoning to the first point of my thesis. This paragraph will also have at least five sentences. The final sentence will be a concluding sentence.

Now, hit TAB and type this:

This is my third body paragraph. This will concern the third point of my thesis. The first sentence will have some sort of transition to connect the argument to the thesis and earlier paragraphs. This paragraph will also have at least five sentences. One of them will of course be the concluding sentence.

Now, hit TAB, and type this:

This paragraph must be at least two-three sentences. This sums up the arguments, nails down the main idea of the thesis, and unlike journalism, which often places the strongest points first, here I want my strongest point and language. While the concluding paragraph can rephrase the thesis, it should not just be a repetition of it.

7. Now, go to INSERT and select PAGE BREAK. Select the CENTER icon or go to PARAGRAPH, select ALIGNMENT and select CENTER. Type in your title. For now, just type in the words WORKS CITED.

8. Now, select LEFT justification icon or go to PARAGRAPH, select ALIGNMENT, and select LEFT. Here is where you will list the books, magazines, journals, newspapers, and online sources used in your paper. The first line of an entry is not indented, but all following lines for that entry are. It is best to enter the source immediately as you use it. This will save you valuable time. A WORKS CITED page is in alphabetical order by last name of author.

Hurricane Gustav:

Well, once again, nature has turned harsh and ugly. So much for Transcendentalism. My publisher (Pelican Publishing) and many of my friends are along the coast. I hope the storm fizzles out. Seeing Cameron Parish this summer depressed me–even so long after Rita. Michele, my good friend and now staff writer for the Assumption Parish newspaper, should have much to write about after the storm is over.

CelticFest Mississippi in Jackson, Sept. 5-6

Assuming Gustav doesn’t do too much damage and disrupt our life too much, my good friend Tom McCandlish and I will be performing at this festival. We have 4 sets. We call ourselves Angus Dubhghall, naming ourselves after two famous Scot warrior-chieftains. I am also booked for two storytelling sessions for the kiddies. I’ll be selling and signing my Scottish Alphabet books as well. If you like Celtic crafts, music, and culture, you will love this festival. You can read all about this festival and see the other performers here:

Here is my flyer (flier is less correct alternate spelling) I use for my Scottish-Irish (Scots-Irish) school programs. Feel free to copy it and send it to librarians or teachers who may be interested in booking me. I love to travel, so I’ll go anywhere. Since my children’s picture book, The Scottish Alphabet, came out, this program is popular now, as well as my Civil War and Texas History program.

Here is one of the famous slave narratives that help us understand what life was like for black Americans before, during and after the Civil War. Most libraries have sets of these. If you purchase a set for yourself, make sure you get the complete set as the abridged set has been severely edited and you’ll get a less objective and jaundiced view of the topic of slavery. The account I have below, for example, is one that might be left out of the purged shorter set (that follows an agenda).

According to this site: “From 1936 to 1938, over 2,300 former slaves from across the American South were interviewed by writers and journalists under the aegis of the Works Progress Administration. These former slaves, most born in the last years of the slave regime or during the Civil War, provided first-hand accounts of their experiences on plantations, in cities, and on small farms. Their narratives remain a peerless resource for understanding the lives of America’s four million slaves. What makes the WPA narratives so rich is that they capture the very voices of American slavery, revealing the texture of life as it was experienced and remembered. Each narrative taken alone offers a fragmentary, microcosmic representation of slave life. Read together, they offer a sweeping composite view of slavery in North America, allowing us to explore some of the most compelling themes of nineteenth-century slavery, including labor, resistance and flight, family life, relations with masters, and religious belief.”  Here is the article I selected. In the transcription some of the original dialect may have been cleaned up to ease reading.

Ida Adkins : 72 years old

I was born before the war.  I was about 8 years old when the Yankee soldiers came through.  My mother and father were Hattie and Jim Jeffries and they belonged to Marse Frank Jeffries.  Marse Frank come from Mississippi, but when I was born he and Miss Mary Jane were living down here near Louisburg in North Carolina where they had a big plantation with I-don’t-know how many slaves.  Marse Frank was very good to his slaves – maybe excepting that they never got enough to eat.  He worked ‘em hard on half rations but he didn’t believe in all the time beating or selling his slaves.

My father worked at the stables, he was a good horseman, but my mother worked at the  big house helping Miss Mary Jane.  Mother worked in the weaving room.  I can see her now sitting a the weaving machine and hear the pedals going “plop, plop”, as she treaded them with her feet.  She was a good weaver.  I stayed around the big house too, picking up chips, sweeping the yard and such as that.  Miss Mary Jane was quick as a whip-po-will.  He had black eyes that snapped, an they saw everything.  She could turn her head so quick that she’d catch you every time if you tried to steal a lump of sugar.  I liked Marse Frank better than I did Miss Mary Jane.  All of us little children called him “Big Pappy”.  He’d go to Raleigh about twice a year and every time he would come back he brought all of us children some candy.  Raleigh was a far ways from the plantation – near about sixty miles.  It always took Marse Frank about three days to make the trip.  A day to go, a day to stay in town, and a day to come back.  He would always get back at night unless he rode the horse back instead of the carriage – and then he would get back about sun-down.

Marse Frank did not go to the war, he was too old.  So when the Yankees come through they found him at home.  When Marse Frank saw the Yankees coming down the road, he ran and got his gun.  The Yankees were on horses.  I ain’t never seen so many men.  They was thick as hornets coming down the road in a cloud of dust.  They come up  to the house and tied the horses to the pailin’s of the fence. There were so many they were all around the yard.  When they saw Marse Frank standing on the porch with a gun leveled on them they got mad.  Marse Frank shot one time and a big bully Yankee snatched the gun away and told Marse Frank to hold his hands behind his back.  Then they tied his hands and pushed him down on the floor beside the house and told him that if he moved a inch they would shoot him.  Then they went into the house.

I was scared near about to death, but I ran into the kitchen and got a butcher knife, and when the Yankees were not looking, I tried to cut the rope and set Marse Frank free.  But one of them blue devils saw me an come a running. He said: “What you doin’ you black brat – you stinking little alligator bait!”  He snatched the knife from my hand and told me to
stick out my tongue, that he was gonna cut it off.  I let out a yell and run behind the house.

Some of the Yankees was in the smoke house getting (stealing) the meat, some of them was at the stabled getting(stealing)  the horses, an some of them was in the house getting(stealing)  the silver and things.. I saw them put the big silver pitcher and tea pot in a bag.  Then they took the knives and forks and all the candle sticks and platters off the side board and they went in the parlor and got the gold clock that was Miss Mary Jane’s grand mothers’ clock.  Then they got all the jewelry out of Miss Mary Jane’s box.  And they even went up to Miss Mary Jane and while she looked at them with those black eyes snapping, they took the rings off her fingers, and the gold bracelet off her hand, they even took the ruby ear rings off of her ears and the gold comb out of her hair.

By that time I was done peeping in the window and was standing beside the house when the Yankees come out in the yard with all the stuff they was toting off.  Mares Frank was still on the porch floor with his hands tied and couldn’t do nothing.  About that time I saw all those bee gums in the side yard.   They was a whole line of the gums.  Little as I was I had a notion.  I run and got me a long stick and turned over every one of them gums.  Then I stirred them bees up with the stick till they was so mad I could smell the poison.  An bees!! You ain’t never seen the like of it  – bees everywhere!! They was swarming all over the place.  The sailed into them Yankees like bullets — each one madder then the other. They lit on the Yankees’ horses till the horses looked like they were alive with the varmints.  The horses broke they bridles and tore down the pailings and lit out down the road.  That running wasn’t nothing — to what the Yankees done.  They bust out cussing — but what did a bee care about cuss words! They lit on them blue coats and every time they lit the stuck in a poison sting.  The Yankees forgot all about the meat and things they done stole; they took off down the road on a run, passing the horses.  The bees were right after them in a long line.  They’d zoom and zip and zoom and zip and every time they zip a Yankee would yell.

When they were all gone, Miss Mary Jane untied Marse Frank and then they took all the silver and meat and things the Yankees left behind and buried and hid it so if they came back they couldn’t find it.  Then they called me and said:

Ida Lee, if you hadn’t turned over the bee gums the Yankees would have toted off near about everything fine that we have.  We want to give you something you can keep so you’ll always remember this day and how you ran the Yankees away.  Then Miss Mary Jane took a plain gold ring off her finger and put it on mine.  And I’ve been wearing that ring ever since.

Tomorrow, I’ll be performing at the Daily Harvest Bakery and Deli from 9:00 a.m. till 1:00 p.m. I had such a grand time last week. I met so many cool people.  Here is a story I wrote: “Green Irish Eyes.”  I haven’t submitted it yet to anyone, but I thought I’d post it here. Let me know what you think of it,  okay?  (rickeyp@bayou.com)

Green Irish Eyes

“It’s a version of history you won’t find in the books, Neil, ” Seamus said. “The arm of Sinn Fein is long and bloody.  Now, Frankie there, he would know. He’s from Belfast. Was a runner for the People’s Army.  Hey, Frankie!”
Frankie looked up from his mopping.
“When you get a minute, come here and meet my friend Neil. A good Irish boy himself, he is.”
“Be right with you, Seamus.” Frankie took a drag of the cigarette hanging from his mouth, pulled up the sleeve of his long-sleeve T-shirt above his elbow.  A dragon was tattooed on his arm and elbow. As he lifted the cigarette to his mouth, his muscles flexed and the dragon seemed to come to life and roar and the Irish tri-color flag flapped in the dragon’s mouth.
I was not surprised Seamus had a worker who had been with the IRA. Seamus’ pub was an Irish fist in the face of Jackson’s yuppies and bluebloods. On the wall were framed photographs of Michael Collins, Stephen Plunkett, Brendan Behan; there were posters and other ephemera—a tile from the roof of Michael Collin’s house, a Sniper at Work sign taken from a C’maglen street corner, a library marker written in Gaelic.
I held out my hand when Frankie came to our table. “Seamus said you were in the IRA. What did you do?”
Frankie looked at Seamus a moment, then shrugged his shoulders. “They called me a go-to guy. Sent me to make small weapons drops and messages.  What’s it to you?”
The bluntness of tough Irish boys always catches me by surprise, and I sat there thinking of how to answer.
“Don’t get pissy, Frankie. He’s as Irish as we are,” Seamus said.  “Neil is a songwriter with a true gift for words.”
Frankie nodded. “Well, he and I will have a good talk sometime if he’ll buy the drinks. Have you seen Morgan?”
“She’ll be here later tonight.”
“When you see her, tell her I’ll be out with Tommy tonight. We’re going to check out a new club in Mound.”
“You want me to tell my daughter that her fiancée is going to a strip club?”
“Naw. Just tell her I’m going out. We’ll talk later, Neil.”
“Do you know my daughter, Morgan, Neil?”
I nodded.
“She’s a lucky girl to meet a guy like Frankie here. How about you? Do you have a sweetheart?”
“There’s a girl . . . let’s just say the first time I saw her she took my breath away.”
“Does she feel the same?” Seamus asked.
“I don’t know for sure. I’d like to think so.”
Frankie said, “I better get back to work, Seamus.”
“Aye.” Seamus reached out and squeezed Frankie’s arms. “Would you look at those muscles, Neil. He’s got the arms of an Olympic weightlifter. Best bouncer I ever had.”
That’s when I really squirmed.
*    *    *
As the weather was mild, I left the bar for a table on the covered patio. Morgan strolled into the club about eight.  A natural beauty, she carried her slender frame with an air of ease and confidence. Her long red hair was pulled back under a ball cap, and she wore a maroon sweatshirt and jeans.  As I hoped, she sat down at my table.
“How about a beer, Neil?” she said.
“Sure.” I signaled Mary, the waitress, as she bustled by our table. “We’ll each have a pint and a glass.”
The Conleys had launched into another song, and the singer’s voice sounded very Irish, though as far as I knew, he had never been to Ireland.  He pounded his bodhran with a tempo that matched my heart.
Mary returned with our drinks and we lifted our shot glasses. “To Ireland,” I said. “And to a beautiful lady.”
“To Ireland, and a handsome man,” she replied. “And to other things.”
We drained the shots and we sipped our beers.  A little bit of froth from the stout clung to her lips, and she licked it off. It was difficult to not stare and lose myself in those green eyes.
“What are you looking at?” she asked.
“Your eyes.” I quoted a few lines of a poem by Frances Collins:
“So stir the fire and pour the wine,
And let those sea-green eyes divine,
Pour their love-madness into mine.”

“I like that poem. I’ll take your reciting it as a compliment.  Eyes are not usually what a guy notices.”
“Shakespeare called eyes the windows of the heart, and others have said that beauty enters the soul through the eyes. Okay, sorry. I’m rattling. You’re just so cute you make me stupid.”
She laughed. “How do you like my cap?” she asked.
“I like it fine.”
“What does it say?”
“It says, Kiss Me, I’m Irish.”
“Oh,” she said. “Okay.” She leaned over and kissed me.  One of her girlfriends hooted.  Morgan gave her the finger.
I heard Seamus call out, “Morgan!”
“Be right there,” she said. “Well, I’ve got to help my father tonight. He’s a little short on help. Thanks for the drink.  I’ll send Mary out with another Guinness—on me.”
When Morgan left, I moved to another table so I could see inside the bar. She had slung a towel on her shoulder and stuck a bottle opener in her back jeans pocket and as the crowd was picking up, she scurried about from table to table, picking up dishes, wiping off tables, and taking orders. I joined the line at the men’s room.  As she walked from the bar into the kitchen, she passed me, touched my middle-aged waist with her hand and said, “Wish we could talk more, but it’s really busy. I’ll have to catch you later.  How about tomorrow night?”
“I’ll be here.”  I walked out to the car whispering, “Stupid . . . moron . . . what are you doing?”
The next night, I was back at my table.  Seamus nodded when he saw me, but didn’t stop to bullshit like he usually did.  I thought he was just busy till I saw him sitting at the bar gabbing with a few of the customers at the bar.  When I saw Morgan, I forgot about Seamus, about Frankie, about anything but her.  She stopped at the edge of the patio entrance and smiled when she saw me.  She was a striking tableau in her high heels, black pants, and a black tank-type shirt and jacket. Silver earrings dangled from her ears and her hair was folded and clamped.
I waved, like a completely smitten and undone simpleton, and when she made it to my table, I stood and pulled back a chair so she could sit.
We drank more than we should have.  She reached for my hand and squeezed it. I melted, and she knew it.
“Let’s go for a drive,” she said.
She stood and led me by the hand outside.  We took my car and drove to the post office where she mailed some letters.  At least one was addressed to someone in Maze Prison in Northern Ireland.  From there we went to the Wildlife Refuge and looked at the moon and shooting stars. I followed the trail of one heavenly monster as it sliced through the blackness and found myself looking into her eyes.
“We really shouldn’t do this,” she said.
“I know, but I don’t think I can stop myself.”
“I know.”
We kissed, and then I said, “You know what I’d like to do? I’d like to take you to Ireland someday. I want to be away from Jackson, in a world all our own. I want to kiss you whenever I want, to walk down the street holding your hand. I want to belong to you and I want you to belong to me.
She sighed. “I’d like that too.”
“I found a writer, a Madame Delphine Gay de Girardin, who said, ‘A woman whom we truly love is a religion.’ I think she was right. And I think you’re my religion.”
“Enough daydreaming and pretty words, English professor. We know what we’re here for.”
The next day, Morgan called me. “We’ve got to talk, Neil.”
“Okay, I—”
“No, listen. I’m not up to you breaking my heart. I like you—a lot—but I’m not going to see you anymore if it’s not going to go anywhere.”
“I don’t know about you, Morgan, but I’m not going anywhere. I’m sure I’m in love with you.”
“You say that now, but you really don’t know. Let’s give each other a week’s space. If I don’t hear from you, then I’ll know for sure.  It will hurt me, and you might hurt some too, but if we handle it now, it’ll be manageable. We would have real problems anyway.”
“You mean with Frankie?”
“Yes, and with my father too. He wouldn’t handle it well. You’d be losing a friend.”
“You’d be worth any price.”
“We’ll see. Goodbye, Neil. One week.”
I avoided Seamus and the pub all the next week. Sat around the house and drank mostly. The week finally passed, but when the deadline to call her came, I sat and looked at the phone,  unplugged it, and went to bed.  The next night I drank half a fifth of Bushmill’s while I looked at the phone, passed out, and barely made it to the university in time to teach my 8:00 class.  I felt as paralyzed as a Prufrock.  The next night, I drank the other half of the Bushmills.  In spite of my self-medication, I didn’t sleep well that night, and in a hypnagogic state I realized that I couldn’t let her go.  The devil take Frankie and Seamus. If Seamus were a true friend, I figured he’d get over it and he’d help Frankie get over it too. Frankie had more important things to do than to fool with me anyway—like going to strip clubs and killing British soldiers and such.
I called Morgan every hour the next day, but there was no answer. I called the bar and asked Mary if she had seen Morgan.
“No,” she said. “She and Frankie left for New Orleans. I think they’re going to catch a plane to Ireland.”
I opened another bottle of Bushmills, filled a glass, and sat down to think. Only two days late. I flipped through the cable stations looking for a movie to take my mind off of Morgan. It must have been Irish Day or something.  The Devil’s Own, In the Name of the Father, Patriot Games, The Crying Game—none of them suited my mood at the time.
I heard my back door open.  Maybe it was the whiskey, but I said it anyway. “Morgan?”
“No, I’m not Morgan, lad,” a male voice said.  The accent was thick with Irish.
I started to get up from my chair, but a vice-like hand pushed me down. “Just sit right there, lad.”
I looked at him.  He was middle-aged, wore a stocking cap, a thick gray sweater covered by an old British field jacket, and camouflage pants.  “Who are you and what are you doing in my house?”
“My name is Lorcan, a friend of the family you might say.”
“You mean Seamus?”
“I do. Hell, you’re brighter than they said you were.  Well, Neil, you’ve created quite a problem, and I’ve been sent to fix that.”
“Are you with the Ira?”
“That I am. Of course, if I told you that, I’d have to kill you.”
“I don’t care who you are. Get your ass out.” I rose from my chair but his fist hammered my nose and knocked me back down.
“Now, don’t irritate me. Look at you, a bloody mess you are.”  He tossed me a handkerchief. “Wipe your nose, and take yourself another drink of that good Irish whiskey.”
While I chugged down the whiskey, I watched him open his jacket’s side pocket and fish out a roll of duct tape, a pistol, and a Black and Decker drill.  When I set down the bottle he tightly bound my feet and arms with the tape. “Why are you doing this?” I asked.
“You can’t go around breaking a young Irish girl’s heart now, can you, laddie. And you insulted your friend Seamus by sneaking around with her like you did.  Did you think that Seamus wouldn’t notice you were seeing his daughter?  And Frankie, he’s not one to piss off either.”
“Well, tell Seamus I’m sorry. Just have Frankie come over and kick my ass.  I’ll make it up to him.”
“Sorry, laddie. My orders were clear—kneecap you, both legs, then one bullet to the head.”  He taped my mouth shut, held up the drill, and spun the bit. “Now, what is it the doctor says? This is going to sting a little bit.”
Actually, it hurt a great deal, but the pain in my heart screamed almost as loud as I did when the drill bit into my knee. I didn’t even think about how bad the pain was. I had always thought my last thoughts would be significant, peaceful—that they would be emotionally charged, summing up my life, finally fitting together all the jagged pieces of the puzzle—that I would find clarity and meaning in the tragedies, the losses, the failures—even failures like this one.  But my thoughts weren’t about those things at all.
All I could think about was Morgan—and I relieved the dreams I had experienced since the first time I had seen her. I imagined her kiss, the softness of her hands, of walking with her in Ireland.  My last conscious thought was how lost I was in those green eyes.   And my conscience whispered some lines from a Longfellow poem:
A pretty girl, and in her tender eyes
Just that soft shade of green we sometimes see
In evening skies.

This is a short play I wrote. Educators may freely copy, use, or adapt this play if they wish as long as they include  credit to me as the playwright, my email, and a link to my website or blog:

Author: Rickey E. PIttman, rickeyp@bayou.com

Personal Website
http://www.rickeypittman.com/
Blog http://southernmissive.booklocker.com/

The Choice: A One-Act Play

Director’s Notes:

See these links for analysis of the poem:
http://www.answers.com/topic/ethics-poem-3   and
http://www.bookrags.com/studyguide-ethics/intro.html

This short play is based on Linda Pastan’s poem, “Ethics.” The play begins with the narrator (perhaps the actor who portrays the woman) reading or reciting the poem.

“Ethics”
In ethics class so many years ago
our teacher asked this question every fall:
If there were a fire in a museum,
which would you save, a Rembrandt painting
or an old woman who hadn’t many
years left anyhow? Restless on hard chairs
caring little for pictures or old age
we’d opt one year for life, the next for art
and always half-heartedly. Sometimes
the woman borrowed my grandmother’s face
leaving her usual kitchen to wander
some drafty, half imagined museum.
One year, feeling clever, I replied
why not let the woman decide herself?
Linda, the teacher would report, eschews
the burdens of responsibility.
This fall in a real museum I stand
before a real Rembrandt, old woman,
or nearly so, myself. The colors
within this frame are darker than autumn,
darker even than winter—the browns of earth,
though earth’s most radiant elements burn
through the canvas. I know now that woman
and painting and season are almost one
and all beyond saving by children.

(We are in the Masur Art Museum in Monroe, Louisiana. On the set are several hinged flats, on which are hung several Impressionist large canvass paintings. On a small table center stage is a large guest book. Play opens with song, “Starry, Starry Night,” by Don McClean. During the song, the curator is dusting and admiring the various paintings.)

CHARACTERS:

SHERIDAN: The museum curator. Middle-aged. He is an art critic and collector. His work is his life.

WOMAN: An old woman.

MINNIE: The curator’s assistant. She is the new secretary newly hired because of pressure from board. She is a complete idiot and incompetent. Doesn’t know or appreciate the arts.

ACT I

Scene 1

SHERIDAN: Minnie?  Minnie! Bring me some coffee. It’s time for the museum to open. (He is now holding a painting in his hands.)

MINNIE:
(She hurries out to him and hands him cup and saucer. She has a cig in her mouth) Don’t you know that coffee is bad for you? I don’t think I was hired to bring you coffee. (She sets it down and starts going through mail)

SHERIDAN:  (Aside) I didn’t want to hire her at all. She’s the niece of one of the board members. (To Minnie) What is your job description? What were you hired to do?

MINNIE: I’m your secretary. Your administrative assistant.

SHERIDAN: Ridiculous. You can’t even spell that.

MINNIE: I can too! T-H-A-T!  Hmmmph!

(She goes to desk. Phone rings. Curator looks at her. Phone continues ringing.)

SHERIDAN: Would you please answer the phone!

(Minnie answers the phone)

MINNIE: Hello? What do you mean who is this? Who is this? Sheridan? Who is Sheridan?  Yes, this is the museum. Oh, him. Yeah, he’s here. Would you like to speak to him?

(Curator moves to her and tries to take phone. She swats him away and is laughing)

MINNIE: Are you sure? He’s pretty grumpy today. Okay. here he is. (Sticks out tongue)

SHERIDAN: This is Sheridan. Why, yes, I’ll be at the conference. Yes, that is correct. My speech will be about The PreRaphelites and it’s called, “The redheaded models of the PreRaphaelites.” No, my secretary will NOT be coming with me. She said what?  She thought Minneapolis was in Mexico? Well, I think she was joking with you. Must have been, nobody could be that . . . (looks at Minnie. She is doing something goofy, making and throwing airplanes)  Never mind. Yes, I’ll see you.

Minnie, where is my plane ticket?

MINNIE: On your desk somewhere.

(He sorts through papers. Finds plane ticket. Looks at it and gasps. Walks to her, slapping his hand with the paper.)

SHERIDAN: Oh, Minnie . . . This is a one-way ticket.

MINNIE: Yeah. You said to book you a flight to Minneapolis.

SHERIDAN: Did you think I was going to walk back? What did you think I meant? You are a moron!

MINNIE: I hate it when you call me names! I’m going to tell my uncle and he’s going to fire you! (She has meltdown)

(An old woman ambles in, singing. She has a hat on and an umbrella in her, and is dressed in ragged clothes. )

SHERIDAN: Ah, our first visitor of the day! Welcome to the Masur Museum! Would you please sign our guestbook?

WOMAN: Good to meet you, Mr. Masur Museum.  What do you do here?

SHERIDAN: I’m the curator.

WOMAN:  What’s that? An alligator?

SHERIDAN: No curator.

WOMAN: You cure things? Can you cure my arthritis? What’s your name?

SHERIDAN: Sheridan

WOMAN: What kind of name is that? (She looks at Minnie) You must be the manager. I think you need to get rid of Bozo here.

(She strolls around looking at art. She does things like try to draw on painting,)

SHERIDAN: You can’t draw on the paintings. What are you, some kind of Vandal?

(Stops at another painting.)

WOMAN: I want to take this one home to show grandkids.

(Sheridan stands between her and painting.)

SHERIDAN: Please, we mustn’t touch the paintings!  That painting is a Rembrandt. It is worth millions of dollars, a priceless work of art.

WOMAN: You paid too much. Someone cheated you.  What will you give me for this one. (She pulls out painting/drawing with Southpark like figure on it)

SHERIDAN (laughs) Oh, please.  This is the worst piece of art I’ve ever seen.

WOMAN:  My grandson did this. You don’t know a thing about art or grandkids either. I know you from somewhere. (She studies him, snaps fingers)  I know! You were one of those Pittman brats!  I don’t know why the museum would hire you. Kids can’t save art.

(Minnie exits, and then returns in a frantic state)

MINNIE: Fire! Fire! I was smoking in the painting restoration room and I put my cigarette out in this pan of water and the fire started.  I’ve never seen water burn.

SHERIDAN: That was paint thinner, you idiot!

(Minnie runs out screaming)

WOMAN: Don’t you talk to your boss that way! (She starts hitting him with umbrella)

SHERIDAN: Please exit the building now. The building is on fire. (He tries to push her along) Get out! I’ve got to save the Rembrandt!

(The woman falls, starts moaning and can’t get up.)  Help! Help me!

(Sheridan tries to carry both the painting and the woman, but can’t)

WOMAN:  Put down that worthless scribbling and get me out of here.

SHERIDAN: (Aside) If I leave her here, she’ll burn to death. Aren’t we supposed to burn witches? If I help her, the newspaper will say, “Addled curator let’s priceless painting burn in fire to save museum vandal.” The museum will close down and no one will trust me with art again. I know, I’ll tell them she was a terrorist!

WOMAN: Please, help me! What will my grandchildren do without me?

SHERIDAN: (Looks at Rembrandt) Oh . . . She has children. What if this homeless bag lady were my mother? I’ll probably regret this choice (He tosses down the painting and helps her out)

Scene 2

(Narrator announces or parades with sign that reads, Scene Two, Three Months Later)

MINNIE: (Enters) Sherwood, there’s someone to see you.

SHERIDAN: My name is Sheridan. Who is it?

MINNIE: I don’t know but they said they were bored. The last name was Smith I think.

SHERIDAN: Mrs. Smith is the chief board member of the museum, Minnie. Send her in.  (Aside) I’ve never met her.  She is the most generous benefactor the museum has ever had. She’s probably come to fire me for losing the Rembrandt. I should have let that old hag fry in the fire. I saved her life and haven’t heard a word from her.  What will I do?

(A well-dressed lady enters. She holds two paintings. Sheridan falls to his knees)

I’m sorry! She held a gun on me! I had no choice.  I should not have saved that crazy old woman!

WOMAN: What did you say about the woman? (reveals herself or Sheridan recognizes her)

SHERIDAN: (screams) She’s come back from hell.  Maybe it’s her ghost, or her twin sister. There can’t be two of them!

WOMAN: Though you are the oddest curator I’ve ever known, because you saved my life, I have something for you.  Two Rembrandt’s! Actually, for a Pittman, you came out okay. I’m sure glad you weren’t Mama Pittman. She would have let me burn up.

And here’s an early Picasso study if you’d like it.

SHERIDAN: (stutters, babbles) Picasso?

WOMAN: Oh, for land’s sake. Do you have these spells often? Here take them.

(Sheridan and Minnie take the paintings and exit. As they walk, they talk)

MINNIE: This is exciting!  I think I may go to college and become an art major. Sherman, who is Picasso?  Was he a basketball player?

SHERIDAN: I think school is an excellent idea, Minnie. I’ll help you find one that has a good art program.

(Now the old lady is alone.)

WOMAN: I’ve loved and studied art and artists all my life. (She picks up painting) I look at something like this, a beautiful work of art, and I think about the painter’s style, the delicate or harsh strokes of his or her technique, the stories and mysteries the paintings hold, and I realize that art is worth saving. But then, so are people. Even old people.  Sometimes art saves us. Sometimes we must save art.

College Schedule:

Mon. & Wed: ENG 102, at 2:00 p.m. & 3:30 p.m

ENG 101 5:00-6:15 p.m.

Tues. & Thurs:  Academic Seminar 12:30-1:45 p.m.

Tuesday Only: American Literature till 1865 (ULM) 5:00-7:45 p.m.

Two Important Future Speaking Engagements:

I’ve been booked to speak at the Louisiana Reading Association Conference, Tuesday, October 28, from 3:15-4:15 Shreveport, LA, and at the Arkansas Reading Association Conference, Thursday Nov. 21, 12:30-1:30 p.m.  My topic  for both presentations is: “Why Authors Should Fall to Their Knees and Worship Librarians.”

Reviving Interest in a Forgotten Novel:

Sometime ago at a reading workshop at West Monroe High School on a Saturday, I won a class set of 30 books from Glencoe as a door prize.  They have a very impressive list, but I decided instantly which book I wanted: Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. I love teaching this novel.  Since I own the books, I decided to assign Frankenstein to one of my ENG 102 classes to be the topic of their research paper. So I checked a copy out to each student, had them sign a promise to pay me $15.00 if the book were lost, and we covered some of the highlights of the novel.

After you get them past the monster/Hollywood version (over a hundred movie versions) and the stereotypes, students learn that Frankenstein is a novel of ideas. The primary one is: What is the responsibility of the creator to his creation? That topic, always present even when unsaid, and the other themes of the novel create much thought. I think that after digesting good books like this, the reader never looks at life the same. Such books feed the mind, are cathartic to the heart, and enrich our cultural and historical understanding. Today, we read “The Golem,” which is the Jewish version of Frankenstein.  In my study and teaching of the Gothic novel of Shelley and the Jewish version, “The Golem,” I’ve learned much about myself, human nature generally, society, and the nature of the universe.

I am going to try to book some high school/college gifted programs focussed on Frankenstein and on World War I poets. I’ve got great workshops put together for both of these topics. I’m sure I’ll have more posts on this topic in the future.

On Oct. 3, at 6:30 p.m. I’ll be performing Irish music and reading Irish poetry at the local Rotary Club’s Irish Whiskey Tasting, which will be held at the West Monroe Convention Center. Help this fine organization out by attending.

ED MILLER LYRICS

Here are the lyrics of another song by Ed Miller, one of my favorite Scottish musicians I’ve mentioned on this blog before. The song is entitled, “My Old Martin Guitar.” As I begin to get more and better bookings for solo performances, this song means more and more to me. I actually own a Taylor and a Guild, though I did attempt to buy a Martin guitar once (It was sold the day before I got the money together, so I bought the old American-made Guild instead) I’ve transcribed the lyrics, so forgive me if I made a mistake.

My Old Martin Guitar

Some people they say I don’t work, boys
My life is all leisure and ease
Well, it’s true that I ramble around, boys
Drink whiskey and do as I please
For I’ve worked all over this country
Know most of the jobs that are gone
But I like best just singing these folk songs
And to play my old Martin guitar

While I have worked on a farm, boys
I’ve helped a forest anew
I’ve been a white collar worker, boys
In a factory I’ve worked with a will
Yes I’ve worked all over this country
I’ve even worked in a bar
But I like best just singing these folk songs
and to play my old Martin guitar

I don’t have much education, boys
So politics, they’re not for me
I just want a life for me family, boys
In a world where we’re equal and free
And I hope for a great day that’s coming
Without hatred, killing or war,
And I hope I might even be helping
As I play my old Martin guitar.

A Blurb and Listing in Scotland for The Scottish Alphabet a children’s picture book by Rickey E. PIttman:

A site called BooksfromScotland.com said this of my new Scottish Alphabet children’s book:

“The ABCs of Scotland are explored in rhyme, imagery, and history. Accompanied by illustrations that capture the beauty of Scotland, folk musician Rickey E. Pittman educates readers to the legendary Scottish way of life in clever rhymes that will entertain readers of all ages.”

You can find that link here: