Miss Margaret Mitchell of Atlanta was not the most brilliant writer in the world, but readers seldom realized it once caught by the charm, dash, & drama of Gone With the Wind. She was born 110 years ago today in the still-recovering, not-so-very-damned Sunny South. I seem to remember (from that that swell TNT documentary) that she was known as Peggy to her friends. She shared a birthday with Bram Stoker (b. 1847) of Ireland, another popular author, just for you to know; and Jack Kilby, b. this day in 1923. To my knowledge, I'd never heard of J.K. until I was working on my book about the artist/teacher/agriculturist/self-styled 'kitchen chemist' Geo. Washington Carver (far & away more than some peanut butter enthusiast trotted out once a year for Black History Month), but Kilby invented the 'integrated circuit' (as well as the sort of calculator one could actually hold in one's very own hand),w/o which I'd not be sitting here typing this on this device, for which he was awarded the Nobel Prize in physics.
It's Patti Page's birthday, too, b. on Peggy Mitchell's 27th birthday (She'd already begun writing her masterpiece.) Patti Page's folks named her Clara Ann Fowler. Anyway, when I was in kindergarten, she was my very favorite singer. I remember thinking that her voice wasn't all breathy and "powdery" like other singers.
A cranky, quirky, funny dame, a cronette, divided in demeanor between fizzy optimism and dispirited melancholy (I treat the latter with new projects, the latest being an early-18th century gentleman's coat that I sewed for myself out of a length of blue denim, decorated w/ brass buttons.) An entertaining speaker I am, to many a gym or library full of students, a fine writer about dead people and things historical, a middling harmonica player and illustrator of many a book, 40 or so & counting.