Archive for February, 2009

Ghost Story

In one of Anita Marie’s recent stories, she talks about driving through creepy small towns in Illinois (USA). I know these towns and have called them home… And she’s right, they are spooky & have secrets they keep…just keep your buggy moving on, allright?

Anyway, it got me thinking about my current small town Illinois home, which is also billed at “the most haunted town in America.” And that reminded me of stories I’ve heard about Civil War tragedies downtown, at the Union prison, and across the Mississippi River, at “Smallpox Island.” How they blew up the island to create a lock & dam, & found 100s of skeletons buried there – which, being practical midwesterners, we used as fill dirt, why waste good grit? I went to Smallpox Island last summer – it’s a lovely picnic area, under shady cottonwood trees, next to the monument with names of dead prisoners carved on it.

There should be a story in there, don’t you think? (Run with it – or from it!)

But don’t take my word for it – here’s a historical account: (see asterisks about the bones):

Alton Prison was in Alton, Illinois, near the Mississippi River. The prison opened in 1833 and closed in 1860 when prisoners were moved to a new facility in Joliet. It was made into a military prison and the first prisoners arrived in February, 1862. It had 24 cells and was nearly 100 yds on each side and had 30 ft high walls, with occasional narrow, paneless windows.

The remnant of a cell block wall was restored in 1973 as a monument. An historical marker has been erected there by the State of Illinois, telling the grim story.

In 1974, archaeologists from Northwestern University uncovered five brick-paved cells on the site of the old prison on William Street. Built back-to-back against a central wall, each cell measured only about 4 feet by 7 feet 4 inches, tight quarters for even one man. It is believed that they held as many as three men each. From each cell, there was a 24-inch door opening through an outer wall two feet thick. Unless there was a wooden door, of which there was no evidence, the prisoners were exposed to the weather during confinement.

In 1975, the Alton Prison Site became one of the few historic sites in Illinois to be added to the National Register of Historic Places.

Hot, humid summers and cold Midwestern winters took a heavy toll on prisoners already weakened by poor nourishment and inadequate clothing. The prison was overcrowded much of the time and sanitary facilities were inadequate. Pneumonia and dysentery were common killers. Smallpox cases were very high and a quarantine hospital was located on an island across the Mississippi River from the prison. Up to 300 prisoners and soldiers died and are buried on the island, now under water. A cemetery in North Alton that belonged to the State of Illinois was used for most that died.

***The Federal government in 1936, uncovered hundreds of skeletons while building Alton, Illinois Lock and Dam No. 26. The entire island was destroyed and the dirt including the bones was used as fill in one of the enbankments on the Missouri side of the river. The entire Island is now under water. Lock and Dam No. 26 has since been destroyed, but the enbankment has been left undisturbed, out of what little respect these POWs have been shown by the U.S. government.***

The graves of the Confederate prisoners buried in the cemetery in North Alton were wholly neglected and all identity was lost. A 40 foot high granite column was completed in 1909. A tablet on the shaft reads “Erected by the United States to mark the burial place of 1,354 Confederate Soldiers who died here and at the Smallpox Hospital on the adjacent island while prisoners of war and whose graves cannot now be identified.” On the four sides of the base are large bronze plates on which are engraved the names, companies, and regiments of all the Confederates buried in the cemetery.

Confederate Prison Site… William St. at Broadway in Alton, Illinois.
Confederate Cemetery & Monument… Rozier St. (2 blocks west of State) Alton, Illinois

http://freepages.genealogy.rootsweb.ancestry.com/~pcheffy/woodwarrecord.html

Perchance to dream…

I’ve never been very good at relaxing.  Even when I tried to learn Lamaze breathing techniques when I was pregnant, I just couldn’t settle down and breathe.  When someone instructs me to “just let go”, I seem to plant my heels and dig in my claws.
 
Even with a leisurely cruise with my Soul Food friends on the SS Vulcania – I don’t relax. I think of it as “I SHOULD write something.”  “I MUST read all those posts.”  “I OUGHT to be a more attentive passenger.”  Somehow, I don’t think that’s what Enchantress had in mind.  Especially with our recent discussions of the shared need for respite from a very scary world these days…
 
But last night, after my shower, I forced myself to be still and have some quiet time.  Monkey mind has a free-for-all with me.  I don’t think that counts as meditation,  but it’s often the best I can do.  As soon as I lay down and try to relax, I think like this:
” I should call call Margie, sort out my beads, catch up on email…I should be putting away the clean dishes…”
 
I should DO, not just BE.
 
But I keep trying to coax myself into being calmer.  Last week at the dentist’s office (and I admit to being a big chicken, even for plain teeth cleaning) – I took myself on an imaginary walk through my neighbor’s beautiful garden when the hygienist poked & prodded & scrubbed in my mouth…I focused on all the red flowers she’s had (roses, geraniums, begonias), all the purple ones (clemantis, irises, pansies, delphiniums)… and it did help me focus on beautiful things, not on my discomfort.
 
So last night, when I allowed myself time to meditate, I imagined what it’d be like to relax in a hammock on a tropical island, like in the e-card Heather sent last month, or to be dozing off in a deck chair on the SS Vulvania…my mind drifted to listening to birds calling (ravens, of course!) – A rabbit named Descartes sniffing for rose-flavored Tim Tams, another chasing her lap dragon, Elizabeth’s soft voice, and a spicy scent when Mistress Ching walked by…the far-off chanty of some pirates singing about rum and dead men’s chests…a talking pen and a blogging dragon…a Rubenesque fairy godmother’s giggle…and wonderful smells of a potluck supper…Aussie strine and some Arizona owls woo-hoo hooing….
 
and involuntarily, I smiled to myself, thinking of that giddy, lovely crew – very glad I am to be along for the ride of my life!

Up in the Tag Cloud

I just added a tag cloud to the blog – look at this list of words – it sounds like a poem to me! (untouched by human hands – maybe the chimps CAN write a  Shakespearean play if we leave them in a room with a typewriter…)

ewing-galloway-chimpanzee-at-typewriter

The Dragon Speaks

400px-ljubljana_dragon1

Ljubljana Dragon (Wikipedia)

Nobody sees it from my point of view, you know. “Oh, horrid frightening ginormous dragon, going to swoop down and eat my children.”  I wouldn’t have to resort to children if they’d just leave a nice cow or sheep out in the open. A beast has got to eat, right? I don’t stop them from having their evening meal.

Contrary to popular stories, virgins don’t taste any better than matrons.  In fact, I like a chunky woman with a bit of extra seasoning, myself.  Although I’d rather devour a female than a male – softer, less gritty, often a bit cleaner.

Now don’t believe all those stories about St. George – he was OK, but he was no saint.  And he didn’t really slay any dragons, we just played dead for him, poor nutter was going on so much about wanting to be a hero and all.  And you do have to admit, those dragon designs on shields ever after are a great advertising gimmick.  Sells the tourist tee shirts, yes? And that turns into treasure, which is the one thing the storytellers got right – we dragons do like our coin, you know, all glittery and gold.  Some think it would be a hard bed to sleep on, but there’s nothing as satisfying as curling up on a big pile of financial security.

Here’s a secret we don’t let out much – not only can dragons talk, we also paint, draw, sing, write, sculpt, dance, blog, and perform the odd spring musical, if we can find costumes big enough for the cast to wear.  We favor Gilbert & Sullivan productions – you haven’t seen anything until you’ve seen a chorus line of dragons spewing fire and high-kicking to the “Pirates of Penzance”!

You ask, “Do dragons fly?” Is the Pope Jewish? Of course we fly – it makes wreaking havoc on large kingdoms ever so much easier.  Though as I get older, I think I’m getting a touch of arthritis in my wings – ah, as they say, “Youth is wasted on the young!”  If I had the brains I have now, and the strength and wingspan I used to have years ago, all I can say is, “Run for your lives!” 

So, being the philosophical leviathan I am, I muse thus:

If I had it to do over again, I would eat more victims, breathe more fire, and hoard more gold.  (Doesn’t finish this bit with a good moral-of-the-story, but we dragons aren’t known for happy endings.)

© 2009 Kerry Vincent

 (from a Soul Food Cafe Box of Chocolates prompt to write about a mythical creature)

 

Cordelia takes a chance

Well what else could she do, when everyone was telling her to seize the day and whatnot? Cordelia has decided to do a little jewelry show this spring, and, if accepted, participate in the local studio tour, ArtEAST, in October.

So she’s been busy making jewelry, which she hopes to sell, so she can buy more dichro glass, and make more jewelry, so she can sell it, so she can get more supplies…

Here’s a few of her latest works.  What do you think?

pink-green

pinkcelt

redgreen

Spell with Flickr – Fun

K E z z003 a
This is so cool – visited Quiet Cabin, & found a beautiful beach message and a link for  Spell with Flickr - which I tried, and used to spell my name.
Great fun! Thanks!

Piece of My Heart (An Exercise)

broken-heart
 
razors rivers roses
lovers liars louts
friends facades fools
poets pranks posers
hoping hating hurting
trying not to care,
I’ll sell my soul for a kiss or a kindness,
love me if you dare
 
my suitcase packed with guilt
a steamer trunk stuffed full of pain
mind the step, my dear,
lest we sink in the quicksand of my past 
 
Will you be my Valentine,
and heal my shattered heart?
You can pick the parts you like
and love me a la carte.
I’ll  practice loving you each day,
and make loving you my art.
 
(c) Kerry Vincent

for the love of chocolate

sm-strawberry

The chocolate was just an excuse, you know. To get you there, to the Arts Center. They hold a Chocolate Festival fundraiser every year, the Sunday before Valentine’s Day. You bring your loved one and you can have all the chocolate goodies you can eat, lovingly made by friends of the Arts Center. This year, if you brought a canned good for the local food pantry, admission was half price.

I go every year and always take family and friends. This year, it was a thrill to hear my teen-aged niece and nephew discuss the merits of various paintings, the artist’s use of light, the colors used for the skies. Art worked its quiet magic – a crabby, stress-worn father calmed down, started speaking more softly, joking, after we chatted with one of the volunteers about our crafts, me, my dichroic glass jewelry making and him his hand-lathed wood pens.

So then they asked me if I showed my work at Art EAST, the local annual studio tour. “Oh, no, I’m not a real artist. I can’t paint or draw. My degree is in English, not art. I just started playing with glass a few years ago,” I argued. “But that pendant you made that you’re wearing, that’s beautiful. And so are those earrings. Did you make them too?” “Yes, and the ones my sister-in-law is wearing, too.”

“ArtEAST is for beginners to get exposure. Why don’t you give them a call?” I’m honored to be asked, but do I dare show the necklaces Cordelia makes at a real art show? What do you think? I have enough to do a show – I have hanging at home what I call “the great wall of jewelry” – beaded necklaces and dichroic pendants and earrings galore – the question is do I have the nerve to believe in my own work?

What do you think?