Is Facebook the Brave New World?

As I sat down with a cup of coffee this morning and started reading my Facebook page, I saw where a friend of mine had voted on yet another Facebook opinion poll.
Along with 3, 565 other people, my friend had voted “no” in the “Un-Americans” poll, which read:

Question: "Nancy Pelosi says that citizens of the United States who disagree with health care reform are Un-American. Do you agree?"
- Yes
- No
- Maybe

Well, gee. Who would vote yes on that? What a stupid thing for Pelosi to say. So I Googled it.

It turns out that what Pelosi had actually stated was that she felt that the people who are disrupting Town Hall meetings and shouting down the opposition were being un-American. It’s okay to disagree; but people should be allowed to be heard.

I learned about Facebook at a seminar I took on social networking. In my seminar, I learned that social networking sites like Facebook can be used to promote your business. I’ve got friends; my friends have friends; their friends have friends. Used wisely, you can get unlimited exposure without the cost of advertising. What a great idea.

But these polls! Who writes this stuff? I’m certain that there are people with vested interests in both sides of the healthcare debate creating misleading polls in order to sway public opinion. And other issues, too.

Voting in a Facebook poll doesn’t really mean anything. Or does it?

On Facebook you can see how your friends voted and they can see how you vote, On Facebook, people are quite often sheep, going along with the opinions of their friends for the same reasons they did way back in high school. Rather than checking the facts and daring to be different, they want to be part of the crowd. It's a subtle and easy way to encourage groupthink by manipulation.

Is there any way to know which Facebook user created a poll? Was it your BFF Susan or was it an insurance lobbyist?

In today’s new information age, it is more important than ever that we take responsibility for sorting through all the information at our fingertips, and finding out which information is reliable and which isn’t.

At the very least, it might keep your mother from forwarding yet another email about catching HIV from infected needles hidden on gasoline pump handles. And when you find a misleading poll on Facebook, rather than rolling your eyes or biting your tongue, announce to all the other poll voters that what they’re voting on is nothing more than another case of misinformation designed to make them get into lockstep with whatever idea they’re trying to get across.

Be the black sheep. If you’re losing friends for telling the truth, then maybe you need new friends.

So now I’m wondering if I should start my own fake Facebook poll. And how much I can get paid for doing it. I just heard that Sarah Palin wants a bill to okay the killing of all the polar bears in Alaska. Do you agree?

Yes
No
Maybe

Wink wink. You decide.

The Fall

At this remove
it seems clear
The star you thought
you were
was shaken
from the tree, fallen
from such a height,
dashed and bruised and
worth less
than you were before

It must hurt. This lessening,
this diminished
sense of mind. Or
is it not yet real?
Do you still
bend down from
your heavens to
squint through the
clouds at my unself?
My nonpersona?

Nevermind. Go
climb back up
the bark,
find the high
limbs that touch
the twinkle. Sink
back
into your loft.

Smile.

Like there's nothing
in this world that's
wrong.

Gone South

If anyone who's following this blog is wondering why I haven't posted much lately, it's because I'm busier'n a cat covering crap on a marble floor. I've been doing a lot of freelancing and photography, and I'm working on another blog, as well, that seems to be taking most of my time. Please feel free to come take a look. I'm having a lot of fun with it. You can find me at Tales of the Shantybellum.

Smoke in the crack

An early memory. Ribbons
of smoke curling
past the lamp.
Gin and tonic
and lipstick on the glass
and laughter.

You, slender as a reed,
fraught with a need
to be more than you
can be.

Laughter brandished
like a sword.  Smoke curls
against the door,
circles three times
and makes its bed in
whomever you've become.

Your skin hangs
on your skull,
yellow teeth and pale
bones beat a dying rhythm.

I look into your eyes
and hear them pleading.
You look at mine.
Can you hear them scream?

How long must we watch
as you eat yourself
from within? How long
before the smoke
no longer lingers?

Hint: A trip to Back to 1975 would be nice this Valentine's Day

Back to 1975
When I was a freshman at the University of Mississippi, I lived in New Dorm, at that time the largest dormitory on campus.

For those of you who aren't familiar with Ole Miss, it is rife with fraternities and sororities that have a chokehold on social life at school. I was a Delta Gamma pledge that first year, sans boyfriend. Even though I was in a sorority, though, I never felt like part of the crowd. I always felt a bit like an outsider.

I'll never forget stepping off the elevator on the lounge floor that morning and having the scent of literally THOUSANDS of flowers hitting my senses. Every girl in that damned dorm must've gotten a bouquet of flowers...except, of course, for me.

All day girls would rush up to the desk that ran the width of the front of the dorm between the two sets of double doors out front, squealing with delight that their boyfriend had sent them flowers for Valentine's. It was a depressing cap on an already depressing day.

When I got back from my first class to find even more flowers and more screaming, ridiculous girls, I'd had it. I went up to my room and pulled out my new American Express card -- the one I'd gotten only for emergencies. Well, this was an emergency, wasn't it? I dialed the florist:

"I'd like to order some flowers, please."

"How much would you like to spend?"

"Hm...let's see. How about fifty....no. Make it seventy-five bucks."

In 1975 you could get a hell of a bouquet for $75.

"What would you like on the card?"

"To my darling, sweet beautiful Elodie from your secret admirer."

I left that stupid bouquet down in the lobby for two days and fielded all kinds of questions from my sorority sisters whose bouquets couldn't hold a candle to mine. It was glorious. Well, almost. I still hadn't really gotten anything from anyone.

It wasn't long before I realized that the reason I felt like such an outsider was because I wasn't the kind of girl who squeals out loud when some kid sends her flowers because it's Valentine's day and he's supposed to walk the walk. I wasn't the kind of girl who enjoys spending hours discussing what color material we're going to choose for our rush outfits the next year.

So I turned in my little anchor pin, put on a peasant skirt and joined the counterculture in Oxford, Mississippi, working at The Gin and The Hoka Theater, and enjoying it immensely.

If I had it to do over, I'd not have joined that sorority, but I gotta admit, I really did think it was a stroke of genius to buy those flowers and watch while those women chewed on the mystery of my secret admirer.

I Wouldn't Treat a Dog This Way

As I drove out the gravel drive on my way to town this afternoon, I saw a deer carcass in the field. I have no idea how the deer died, as it was too far from the road for someone to have shot it. As I passed, I saw one of the dogs lying next to the carcass. I thought it was the hound I affectionately refer to as Prince Valiant.

The dog saw the car and hopped up and ran towards me. It was then that I realized he was hurt, favoring one paw. For a moment I was confused. The paw just didn't make sense. Then I realized with horror that this wasn't Prince Valiant at all, but the whisper of a dog that had been starved nearly to death with a mangled paw. That deer was probably the only meal he'd had in weeks.

This was as bad as anything I've ever seen on Animal Cops. The dog's ears had huge chunks torn out of them. His one good foot looked as though it had some broken toes; his tail hung at an odd angle and appeared to be broken; you could see every bone in his pathetic body. Even so, he showed me no fear and climbed right up into my car when I opened the door. I noticed later the clear indentation where he'd worn a collar that had rubbed the skin raw. Someone had had this dog like this for a long time and neither sought veterinary care for him or fed him. He'd probably been dumped at our driveway sometime this morning, for he hadn't been there an hour before when my father walked down to the gate to get the paper.

I plan to send these photos to the local paper and ask for information on who owns this dog. If I find out, I'll do everything in my power to see that the bastard who treated a fellow living creature this way gets the full force of the law thrown at them. I'm not a violent person, but I make no promises if I find you. Bastard.

My favorite room

My favorite room was a room in my house in California. It had large picture window with a southwestern exposure and was bathed in an incredible light during the afternoon. We had a birch tree in the yard with willow-like branches through which the light filtered, making patterns dance along the wall in the evening light.



One day, I set a vase of tulips on the table, and each one filled with light, like a fine, bone-china cup filled with sunshine spilling out onto the table. On another day, an arrangement of calla lilies caught a rainbow that moved around the bloom like a genie coming out of a bottle.



The room was beautiful, too. We had a baby grand piano in there, and there always seemed to be an amber cast to the light.



I liked to open that picture window and lie on the sofa a read and doze listening to the sounds of children laughing and dogs barking, of cars passing on the street in a gentle rain -- the sounds of life. I'd open the French doors in back, as well, and listen to the water fall in the spillways in the pool and the parakeets' joyful, raucous arguments with pigeons that ate their spillings outside the cage.



The palms sighed, "Hush," on a gentle breeze, afraid they might wake the Santa Anas, and the sun boiled down behind the hills, angling her light in a silver spray.



I don't miss California, but I miss my room -- my sanctuary. It was the most peaceful place on earth.

Blast from the Past - The Hoka Theater

For anyone who was in Oxford, Mississippi in the late 1970's, you'll love this documentary about The Hoka Theater.

Last spring while on an impromptu driving trip, I went to Oxford and looked for the Hoka. I was there when the Hoka got its start and many of my fondest memories are of hanging out with friends and occasionally running the old film projector.

It was gone, torn down a couple of years ago to make room for some new development. It made me sad. But I had lunch with Ron Shapiro, who gave me a copy of this film. I was delighted to find it online today and share it gleefully with any and all who would like to see.

Enjoy.

Sorry We're Open from Joe York on Vimeo.

Preserving Folk Art at Mississippi Cultural Crossroads

I"ve got a new article in Country Roads Magazine this month. Mississippi Cultural Crossroads in Port Gibson, Mississippi is raising money so they can continue to to promote the educational, cultural, and economic development of the citizens of Claiborne County by providing and supporting programs in the arts and humanities which will develop talents, provide outlets for personal expression, and create opportunities for persons of diverse cultural backgrounds to celebrate their heritages and gain respect for other cultures.

*Photo - Jessica's String by Jessica Crosby

Out and About

Tommy and I went to Zachary, Louisiana over the weekend to listen to some music at Teddy's Juke Joint, which is described as the last authentic juke joint on the old Highway 61, also known as The Blues Highway. It's located in an old shotgun house, and it's everything a juke joint ought to be. Teddy, the proprietor, was there, all dressed up in his hat and signature blue cape, spinning records between sets while his wife, Miss Nancy, served food and drinks. I had the fried catfish. Mmm!

We listened to some incredible Blues music by the Lil' Ray Neal Blues Band. Ray is an incredible guitarist who's played with some of the biggest Blues names around -- BB King, Bobby Blue Bland, Bobby Rush, and others.

On the way back home the next day, we stopped in St. Francisville, Louisiana and toured Rosedown Plantation. Built in 1834, it was the home of a wealthy cotton planter, Daniel Turnbull. It consisted of about 3,500 acres which was tended by nearly 500 slaves. The house fell into disrepair in later years, but was rescued in the 1970s by a wealthy oil heiress, who put $10 million into restoring the house and the formal gardens. It has 28 acres of formal gardens.

It is now the property of the State of Louisiana, and is one of the most fascinating tours I've ever taken. Much of the furniture in the house is original, and many of the family papers are displayed, giving guests a real peek into what life was like so many years ago. A thoroughly enjoyable trip.

Now They've Thought of Everything!

Do any of you allow ads on your blogs? I've been doing it for awhile now, and while I've never had enough of a readership to actually reap any profits from it, I have gained something valuable.

I was editing a post one day, when I clicked on one of the ads. It was for something called a Pulse Pen by Livescribe. They had a little video of a group of people at a business meeting with the boss from Hell, barking orders in staccato and dashing back out of the room saying, "You got that?"

It's obvious from the horrified looks on everyone's faces that, no, they hadn't "gotten that." Who could possibly keep up?

Then we see the calm, collected fellow in the corner with his Livescribe pen -- a pen that not only records audio of everything that's being said, but also stores the notes you've written in a .jpg format that you can upload to your computer and share with others.

And what I consider it's BEST feature: If you're reading along in your notes and you can't make out what you've written or you missed something, all you have to do is tap the pen on the word in your notebook and the audio that was being recorded when you wrote that word instantly plays back.

It's a special notebook -- I call it the Magic Pad -- with tools at the bottom of the page that when tapped, allow you to start or stop recording, bookmark an important place in the notes, jump forward, jump back, adjust volume -- everything. It's just....well, it's amazing.

So I bought myself one. I never learned shorthand and have always had a problem keeping up when taking notes. It's the best thing I've ever bought. It does exactly what they promise it will do, and it's easy to use. I wrote an article with my new pen this weekend, and it made my life so much easier, I was dumbfounded.

No, there's no user's manual an inch thick that one must learn in order to use their pen. Just a tiny little booklet that helps you set up your pen. Then you download the Livescribe software from their site and you're ready to work.

Folks, this stuff is genius. And I'm so grateful to have found it, I'm treating them to this little free ad of my own. Be sure to tell them you heard it here.

www.livescribe.com

The Garter, the Sword and the Veil

The Garter

“Guard this with your life,” said Stella Jenkins Carby as she handed over a scrapbook made for The Garter Girls, a group of women in Natchez, Mississippi, who began a wedding tradition around a bridal garter in 1946 that still continues. Stella’s daughter, Bettye Jane Carby, was the thirty-fifth girl to wear the coveted garter when she said, “I do,” to husband Charlie Roberts on December 13, 2008, at the Carby’s home in Natchez.

The garter was made by the late Mrs. Howard Pritchartt, Sr. for Buzzy Parker, when she married Bobby Crook in 1946. Buzzy and her friends, decided to share the garter, which would see them through marriages and births, war and peace, riches and despair, and beyond. Rather than having the groom toss the garter, the girls decided it should be passed down to their children. They made some rules:

1. Can only be worn by a daughter or a son’s bride

2. Can be worn by Mabel (Raworth’s) children (an honorary member who was not part of the original group)

3. Can be worn once by any person to get married

4. Can be worn on 25th anniversaries (and now on 50th)

The first photo of the garter girls was taken by Mrs. Helen Jenkins, whose son, Sonny, was Bettye McGehee’s beau. He would later become her husband.

“She took the photo to send to Sonny in World War II,” remembered Sallie Ballard, one of the original Garter Girls. “He was flying the Hump in Burma. We were at the Beltzhoover’s pool at Green Leaves, and we were all sophomores, maybe juniors,” she added.

“The bigger girls at the pool all had cigarettes, so we all got cigarettes from them and posed. It was the first year two-piece bathing suits were available to the public, so it was kind of shocking.”

It’s too fragile now to actually wear, but is still reverently passed from one girl to the next, all descendants of the original six girls, whose friendship lasted throughout the years — Mary Ann Brandon Jones, Bettye McGhee Jenkins, Virginia Beltzhoover Morrison, Sallie Junkin Ballard, the late Dunbar Merrill Flinn, the late Buzzy Parker, the late Mabel Conger Raworth and the late Alma Cassell Kellogg Carpenter.

“Once somebody had worn it, you kept it until somebody else needed it,” recalled Mrs. Ballard. “After [my daughter] Dix got married and the garter was hers, I remember telling [my late husband] Basil, ‘If by hook or crook our house catches fire, grab up all the family pictures and — whatever you do — get the garter.’”

Mrs. Ballard continued: “Basil looked at me and said, ‘I’ll go back into a burning house for family pictures, but not that garter. If it’s that important, you need to take it and put it in a lock box at the bank.’”

And that’s exactly what she did, as have many others burdened with the onus of such responsibility.

The Sword

“Be very, very careful with these,” said Joie Morrison as she handed over family photos. “Please don’t let anything happen to them.”

Standing in the hallway of a house that has been owned and lovingly cared for by her family since 1849, and surrounded by heirlooms such as bone china attributed to John James Audubon, a family Bible dating back to 1670, and old Natchez silver made by Natchez silversmith George MacPherson, it is clear that care should, indeed, be taken. The members of this family are keepers of the flame, stewards of history and tradition.

The story of the sword begins at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815.

“Unfortunately, this is all oral history, as the best stories always are,” said Ruthie Coy, Joie’s cousin and the niece of Joie’s mother, Virginia Lee Beltzhoover Morrison.

According to family lore, the sword was picked up after the battle of Waterloo by a French soldier whose grandson joined the Confederate army and was in Colonel Daniel Beltzhoover’s unit — Watson’s Louisiana Artillery. It was in Vicksburg where the grandson was mortally wounded, and as he lay dying gave it to “Colonel Dan.”

Although no one knows exactly how it transpired, can’t you just imagine the young soldier, mortally wounded, his lifeblood leaking out onto the Vicksburg soil, gasping, “Colonel Dan, suh…cough!”

“What is it, son?”

“Mah sword, suh. Please, take it. It belonged to mah grandfathuh at Waterloo. Cough! Suh, guard it with your life!”

Later, when Colonel Dan’s horse was shot out from under him, the bullet struck the scabbard of the sword and cracked the sword, itself.

“See, here’s the bullet hole,” said Joie, pointing to the scabbard. She pulled out the sword. “We still have the whole sword, but it broke it right in two.”

Still, the story has a happy ending: the family uses it to cut the family wedding cakes at Green Leaves.

“The first wedding that we know for sure it was used in was my mother and father’s [Ruth Audley Beltzhoover and Richard Conner] wedding in 1945,” said Ruthie Coy, “when he was on leave from the Army Air Corps during World War II. We have an account…of my grandparents’ wedding there in 1891, but no mention of the sword. The latest was my niece, Denise Conner Hiller in 2007.”

But if you want to use the sword to cut your cake, the keepers of the sword agree: get married at Green Leaves. The sword stays put.

The Veil

It was in 1848 when Fanny Turner married Lemuel P. Conner, wearing the beautiful lace veil that would also become a tradition at Green Leaves weddings.

“The weddings have been held at the church, in the parlors, and in the back garden,” said Coy. It was actually a Britton family [of Melrose Plantation] tradition, but then included us again when my mother and father married.”

Denise Conner Hiller, who was also the last to use the sword, was the last to use the veil, as well.

“Denise was the fifth generation to wear it,” said Coy, who included a list of all the family members who have worn the veil.

“My favorite part of the story is how jealous all her girlfriends were because she had all this fabulous ‘old stuff’ for her wedding.”

Ruthie recalled that when Denise wore the veil in 2007, the keepers kept careful watch.

“Oh, she didn’t wear it to the reception,” she said. “As soon as she walked back down that aisle, we snatched it off. Well, not really,” she laughed. She had wedding photos taken in it, but we weren’t going to chance it getting danced on.”

With their careful care the keepers ensured the veil will be here for future generations.

How does a tradition become a tangible link to the past and a generous gift to the future? You guard it with your life.

Tomatoes & Brie with Linguini

                                   (Photo by Elodie Pritchartt)

This is one of the easiest, most delicious recipes I have.




Tomatoes & Brie with Linguine

Okay. I admit it. I'm lazy. But I've also got very snobby

tastebuds. Pleeeease give me recipes that will indulge my inertia!

Here's what I made last night:

tomatoes, lots of 'em. Yesterday, I used a variety of organic
yellow, orange and red cherry-sized, teardrop and plum tomatoes. Also
used these little teeny, tiny tomatoes I've discovered at Von's that
are the sweetest I've ever tasted, and no bigger than a large
blueberry. They're called Mini Charms and come from Victory Garden in
Livermore, California.

1 lb. of Brie cheese, rind removed, torn into irregular pieces. (The
lazy soul that I am, I also discovered Alouette brand, rindless Brie
cheese. It's delicious and soft and comes in one of those little
triangular packages. Find it with those potted Alouette
cheese spreads.)

1 cup cleaned fresh basil leaves, cut into strips

3 garlic cloves, peeled and finely minced

1 cup best-quality olive oil

one-half teaspoons salt (I prefer coarse, Kosher salt. Just tastes
better)

one-half teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

One-and-a-half pounds linguini (I like the fresh linguini, but am too
lazy to make it myself, so I buy it at the market)

Freshly grated, imported Parmesan cheese (optional. I don't use it.)

1. Combine tomatoes, Brie, basil, garlic, oil, salt and pepper in a
large serving bowl. Prepare at least two hours before serving and set
aside, covered, at room temperature.

2. Cook the linguini.

3. Spoon linguini into small serving bowl and (I use a slotted
spoon, it's very oily) spoon sauce onto the pasta and EAT!

Reflections

Pink in the afternoon