Red

So, my old Timelines of History book [bought it in a used book store years ago, a little bit o' the best money I ever spent] tells me that, in 1585, Wm. Shakespeare left his home village, Stratford-on-Avon [River] to seek his fortune in London. And the French poet Pierre de Ronsard [quoted so beautifully by Herbert Marshall as Somerset Maugham in the 1946 film version of The Razor's Edge], died that year and in the year before, Sir Walter Raleigh had claimed a portion of the New World. Virginia he called it, kissing up to his patroness.

Anyway, a boy-child was born 9 Sept. 1585, in Paris [man oh man. mon dieu! what then must it have been like to walking about the streets of Paris? ] Armand du Plessis. He's better known as Cardinal Richelieu, stern prime minister of France, played by Charlton Heston in the 1973 version of The Three Musketeers film, the only really good one... by Vincent Price in the 1948 technicolor whack at the daring trio..... jeez Cheryl -get a life!

Coeur de Lion

So, according to my trusty World Book, Henry & Eleanor's boy, Richard the Lion-Heart [splendid nickname - what would mine be, I wonder? 'Possom Heart] was born in Oxford on this day in history. Were he alive today, old Richard I, King of England, he'd be far too, too decrepit, I'd imagine, to enjoy the light made by the 853 candles on his cake. My battered Timelines of History notes that Jews were massacred at his coronation in 1189. Really? How utterly horrid. May their souls be blessed & comforted. According to the W.B. by the way, the Lion-Heart beat its last, during the siege of a French castle. http://www.ourcivilisation.com/smartboard/shop/humed/massacre.htm

Sheesh, what a species we are.

On a blessedly different note, it was on a long, hot 8th of September 16 years ago that I drove my white Escort from Colorado Springs to Independence, to my new/old home where I lived when I was in high school. 'Cruddy Dump,' - that's what Mom called it when we first moved there in the summer of '68... Anyway, a 12-hour drive 'cross Kansas with beautiful Irene the cat [dazed, tranquilized, yowling 600 miles], my Scottie dog, Maudie; and 2 hound dogs, Ruby & Rosepie, the Bassett Sisters. They're all gone now, off in the Blue Beyond with all the dead folks and their pets. The sun was a red ball over hot hazy KC when we finally got hereabouts....

Jessie

So, just for you to know, a fine, hardworking illustrator, one of my all-time favorites, Jessie Willcox Smith, was born on this day in 1863, a couple of months after the horrific Battle of Gettysburg. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jessie_Willcox_Smith If I didn't have a boatoad of work to get to my own self I'd point out that Miss Jessie [she never married, never had children of her own, much preferring to paint them rather than having to fool with them all day long. amen.] turned 31 in 1894, the year that President Cleveland signed the paperwork, making Labor Day a national holiday, to take some of the sting out of the fact that he'd sicced federal troops on striking railroad workers.

jesse

‎".... my life was threatened daily, and I was forced to go heavily armed. The whole country was then full of militia, robbing, plundering and killing."

Jesse Woodson James, whose lively life began this day, 1847

So, September 4, was the 208th anniversary of the birth of doctor/missionary/Oregon Trail pioneer Marcus Whitman and I neglected to write about him yesterday. Boy oh boy, I once spent several satisfactory months writing and illustrating a book about him and his wife Narcissa. It graced no bestseller lists & sits on too few bookshelves, but the Whitmans lived lives worth knowing if only because their stories tell us so much about the larger story, the Westward Movement, ethnic misunderstandings, cultural hubris, & all. Were I not so dispirited and impatient right this very minute, busting to go out and take a walk on this lovely September Sunday, and needing to get back indoors to write some more about another 19th century American (Dr. Mary Walker, eccentric reformer, Medal of Honor winner, Civil War personality, a bit of a crackpot in her later years), I'd wax on a bit about Marcus & Narcissa & the deadly culture clash at the end of the Oregon Trail. I'll content myself with pointing out that Jesse James was not quite two months into his storied life when the Whitmans and a bunch of other folks at their mission were murdered way off to hell&gone west, in what would be the state of Washington, on 29 November, 1847. Who killed them? Men of the Cayuse, whose tribe was dying of measles, brought in by white settlers pouring into their land, one of the tribes they'd traveled clear across the country to convert to Christianity.

I'll say what Grandma used to say, when confronted with a little too much to handle: Horrors.

Peace

“In the life of each of us, I said to myself, 'There is a place remote and islanded, and given to endless regret or secret happiness.'”

Sarah Orne Jewett, born 3rd of September, 1849

So, I said to myself, there's a lovely quotation I'd never have come across had I not been looking to see who was born on this day in history. Were I to be telling personal truth here, I'd note that all is pretty much peaceful on my inner island though the climate is generally regretful. As I'm not, I'll note that important, complex men were settling their wigs on their heads, tugging on their silk stockings, clothing themselves in fine wools and linens, buckling their shoes, making ready for a big day in Paris, 227 years ago this day. Sealing wax was melted, quills were trimmed, ready for the dipping and scratching signatures across fine parchment on Sept. 3, 1783, , where the final treaty of peace & commerce between Great Britain & the baby U.S.A. was about to be signed, ending the truly dreadful world war/Indian war/civil war, never mind those quaint engravings and oil paintings. The Revolutionary War of Independence was finally over. God bless the United States of America - and all the other nations, too. We all, for sure, need all the help we can get.

Pudding Lane

So, do you care to know that the last queen of Hawaii was born on this day in history? Liliuokalani. 1838, the year that George Sand, a.k.a. Baroness Dudevant, won Chopin's love, the genius's dubious ardor. [Oh, do, if you haven't, see Impromptu, the glorious 1991 film re: their affair].. The soprano Jenny Lind, a.k.a. "Swedish Nightingale," made her debut in Stockholm that year - oh to be able to peer back in time, see the audience that night.....Lamplight on excited faces. Elaborately tied cravats. Satin slippers. Whisper rush & crackle of heavy silk & taffeta. Oh you know that the iron boot heel of the patriarchy was firmly planted on the necks of women & girls then. Ah well, those who had menfolk w/ deep pockets could console themselves by dressing up total doll-baby. The European dress styles were marvelously poofy-foufy. Note the horrid [except for Laurence Olivier as Mr. Darcy] 1940 film version of Pride & Prejudice. Don't even ask why the Bennet ladies were dressed pretty much 1830s. Anachronism & ruffles.

No? Well then let me remind you that today's the anniversary of the surrender [long goddam horrid time coming] of the militarized, god help 'em, Japanese Empire. 1945.

No? Then I'll point out that it was in the wee-est hours of the 2nd of Sept. 1666 when a fire broke out in a bakery in Pudding Lane. The Great Fire of London had begun. Before it was over three days later - oh man, before the conflagration, the fiery hellish business, was over... not a scene I wish even to ponder.

September

So, check out this here website: http://vickigrove.com/. You'll see that the site is in its infancy, but I wanted you to see the lovely pictures of my friend Vicki & where she lives, way off in the Missouri country to the south of here. I wrote a novel once because I wanted to write the book I wish I could've read when I was twelve, when things were so horrible. And then I could always say I'd written a novel, as had my friends, particularly Vicki Grove. I wanted to merit her friendship. Wanted to see if I could finish an entire novel, climb clear up to the top. It, my chapter-book, was published, had its day, but I'm not & never will be one of those who simply must write. Not having done so, will not feel whole. When do I wish to write? When I'm driving down the highway. When I have painting that must be done. When I'm sewing. When I'm reading something splendid: most recently Advise & Consent by Allen Drury. In other words, when I'm not writing. When I must write, I'd ever so much rather read. Let me tell you: Having, pondering a splendid idea for a book is rather like romance. Like dating. Following through, working your way through chapter upon chapter, is something entirely else. Talent w/o resolve, w/o will, w/o consistent industry, is - Well, one must be a good steward of one's gifts, so I learned in Sunday School, back when I was 12, when things were so terrible.

I was going to write a bit of appalled, sorrowful, looking-in-the-rearview-mirror verbiage about the German armies blasting into Poland on this day in history, in 1939, the Golden Year of movies, black & white, but oh well....