Yes. Watermelon. My favorite summer fruit.

Let me backtrack a bit. Normally I will not buy watermelon any earlier than June. Before then I don't find it as sweet and juicy. But last week I was at Wal-Mart shopping with my sister, and she announced, as we passed the display, "I have GOT to have watermelon."

Last year we had few good ones, thanks to the drought. I laughed and gave her my caveat, and told her to let me know if it was good.

I didn't see her again for a few days, but when I did the first thing I asked, after "how is everybody?" was "how was the watermelon?"

"Oh, it was SO GOOD--"

In fact, the Princess, who is usually not an enthusiastic consumer of fruit, ate as much of it as her mommy.

So, the next time I shopped, I bought a wedge. I left it in the fridge a full twenty-four hours before I unwrapped and cut it.

Hmm. Firm flesh, plenty of juice, seedless (well, at least, only those tiny soft white seeds), rich red color--

And then I ate a bite.

AHH! Ambrosia. Love at first bite. Sweet, just a tiny bit crunchy, icy cold, quenching a thirst I didn't know had been lurking in body and soul for a year now--no salt. Salt takes away from the sweetness.

Licking every last drop of juice off my fingers--

Oops. I think I'm gonna stop now. I'm about to begin writing ecstatic, orgasmic watermelon porn.

And on that naughty note, fair thee well.

Another update: Madame and Roscoe have been spotted heading south from San Francisco. A friend from the area phoned Willard to say that the Bud Light truck was spotted just bookin' it for Baja after an APB went out. It seems that, rather belatedly, Anheuser Busch has decided they want the truck back. Madame, we venture to suggest, hasn't drunk her way through the contents of the trailer yet, and will not give them up without a fight. Roscoe, who is a peaceful soul despite several fatal confrontations with revenuers in his youth, probably decided they'd be better off south of the border until she finishes up the Bud Light.

I can see it all now: sneaking down to Tijuana, where Madame will no doubt replenish the money Auntie sent by Western Union by setting up a tent on the nearest beach. There, with sand and spray from the ocean blasting the talcum powder off the crystal ball (it's an American Express crystal ball; she don't leave home without it ), she will take advantage of tourists drowsy from too much sun and tequila, with Roscoe standing by to muscle out the ones who don't like what she sees in the crystal. (That will be most of them.) Fortunately, Madame works for cash on the barrelhead, as we hillbillies say. Whether she works for pesos or greenbacks is still open for debate.

We do have one concern: we haven't had time to check her house and see if she took along the infamous possum fur bikini. If she did, tourism in Tijuana will be ruined for years to come. (Willard suggests that Madame might, instead, turn it into a nudist beach, but I refuse to go there; anyone who has ever seen Madame in the altogether knows it's too vile to contemplate.)

On the other hand, she might decide she prefers Dos Equis to Bud Light and stay awhile.

If so, we'll be at war with Mexico within the month, possibly sooner.



Meanwhile, may I introduce another new member to the Stream, Shakespeare's Beatrice at http://muchadoaboutnothing.blogstream.com/. Like gnostix1, she's a friend from other boards, other places, other times, who likes the fun we're all having here and has decided to join us. Drop by her site when you can--and tell her Fairweather says hi.

And on that worried note (after all, Madame and Roscoe ARE still on the run out there, and may be on the FBI's Ten Most Wanted List by dark--unlawful flight to avoid prosecution), until next time, fair thee well.

Good afternoon, Tuesday--whose virtue is this: you never heard a song called "Blue TUESDAY"--Actually it's not bad here. The sun is bright, the wind is light, and a while ago the house did a little Jello shimmy that may have been a blast at the quarry across the creek or may have been a tiny earthquake--we occasionally have tiny tremors here, although we don't have a major fault line within a few hundred miles--

Anyway, a Madame update: Willard called me awhile ago. She was up early on her rounds and happened to see GOOD MORNING AMERICA was at the Golden Gate Bridge across San Francisco Bay. And--yes, you guessed it--there, back in the crowd, stood Madame and Roscoe. Madame seemed a bit tipsy; Willard said Roscoe caught her by the collar and lifted her off her feet, holding her kicking and screaming in midair until she agreed to move to a safer spot, where she was less likely to pitch headfirst into the bay.



I have a feeling they'll probably take the Alcatraz tour before they get another tank of diesel and hit the road again. I can guarantee the ghosts who inhabit the Rock--even the Birdman and Al Capone himself--will hide out till Madame's gone. Now Roscoe, he looks like he would have fit right in in the bad old days when the island was America's toughest maximum security prison, but Madame will scare them crapless with her attempts to "send them to the light"--and no Aunt Ornery there to straighten out the mess she makes--

One other note this fine PM: I have reactivated my Gimme a Book blog, so please stop by sometime!

And on that note of shameless self-promotion, fair thee well.

Well, part of the back story is that Madame has FINALLY been in touch with us. For awhile there we--Willard, Auntie, and I--were watching the news with our fingers crossed, hoping against hope she wouldn't turn up in connection with any more episodes like the one in St. Louis, when she and that ridgerunnin' brother of hers crashed the gate at Anheuser-Busch.

First, she called Auntie. I happened to be there when she got in touch, interviewing Auntie for the Blogger Inquirer. (Check out http://librarycat.blogstream.com. Is that Auntie not the CUTEST thing in a bonnet?) They were--her and her brother, whose name, it seems, is Roscoe--just outside Omaha, out of diesel fuel (but not Bud Light) and needed money to fill up the truck and go on.

I hadn't checked my email in awhile. This evening, I found this, from early this AM:
**********************************************************************
Willard here.
I forgot to tell you, I was watching Good Morning America the other morning when they were showing the third of their seven wonders of America series. Chris Cuomo was at the Grand Canyon showing that clear overlook they built.
OMG that looked like Sadie in the background with a sign saying "Hi Auntie". There was an older roly-poly man with a beard. I did a double-take. The beard was braided. So unless there are two people running around looking like Madame and her ridge-running brother they made it to Colorado. What do these two think they are?? Thelma and Louise????
**********************************************************************
The longer I thought about it, the more I thought that A) it probably WAS Madame and Roscoe, but B) nope, I don't think Thelma and Louise will quite work, cause best I remember, neither one of them had a braided beard--and since Sadie's a woman, they can't be doing Butch and Sundance, either. Nor can they be doing Bonnie and Clyde; unless you count beer bottles as a weapon, Madame and Roscoe aren't armed.

That was before I got a phone call from Auntie, though. She was at her boyfriend's and couldn't talk long, but she said that she had been watching GMA the morning they broadcast from the Little Bighorn Battlefield and could have SWORN she saw an old lady with a flower in her hat, standing behind Chris Cuomo, holding a sign that said "HI, AUNTIE" in one hand and a Bud Light in the other.

Well, we don't know where that pair of hillbilly terrorists (remember that poor truck driver back in Maryland? He's STILL in therapy) will turn up next, but we do know this: they didn't drive the diesel off a cliff--

**********************************************************************

Meanwhile, may I welcome a new member to Blogstream? He's a friend of mine from other boards, other times, other places, who came over to check out FW and Auntie and decided to join us. His blog is at http://gnostix1.blogstream.com/--and he answers to the name g1. (That's a one, not a lowercase L.) He seems to have encountered some characters who can give Madame a run for her money at the art of the con. Check his blog out--I think he's a great addition!

Until next time, fair thee well!

Niota, Tennessee, a small town on Highway 11 in McMinn County, has come to national prominence twice in the past century. Most recently, it was during a time when all city government offices were held by women. The ladies were featured on GOOD MORNING AMERICA, and I still cringe to remember that during the entire interview, Charles Gibson consistently mispronounced Niota. For future reference, Charlie--and others who might not know--it's pronounced nigh-OH-dah, NOT knee-OTT-uh.

But I digress. In August 1920, a young man who was born, raised, and buried in Niota had a huge role in obtaining passage of the Nineteenth Amendment, which gave women the vote in the United States. And he did so thanks to the influence of his mother.

Harry T. Burn was born in 1895. He was first elected to the state General Assembly at the age of twenty-two. In 1920, during his first term, he became embroiled in a major national battle: to get the Nineteenth Amendment passed. The history of the long fight even to get this measure to that point--it was presented to the states for ratification by the 66th Congress of the United States on June 4th, 1919--has been told by better historians than me in other places. At the time there were forty-eight states in the Union, and ratification was required from thirty-six of the forty-eight for it to be added to the Constitution. Tennessee's General Assembly was one of four states given the opportunity to become that thirty-sixth state; three others refused to call a session of their legislatures to take up the question.

To put it bluntly, things did not look good for its success. It was a measure opposed not only by men but in large part by women as well; many opposed it on the grounds that A) women were silly creatures, apt to be swayed by emotion rather than reason, and therefore to cast their ballots for some totally unsuitable candidate; B) that many would cast their votes the way some man ordered them to; and C)--inevitably--racism raised its vile head; the law did not distinguish between white women and women of color, and many who might have been inclined to give the vote to white women would not extend the same privilege to women of color.

In Tennessee, in that hot summer of 1920, supporters of the amendment wore a yellow rose; opponents wore red ones. This was the second "war of the roses" in our state history; the first had been when the Taylor brothers, Robert and Alfred, had run against each other for governor in the 1880s, and their supporters wore different colors of roses.

Harry T. Burn was twenty-four that year, and he was staunchly opposed to giving women the vote, wearing his red rose proudly. On the day the vote came before the General Assembly, he planned to vote against the amendment.

And then he got a letter from his mother.

Phoebe Ensminger Burn was a widow, living at the time on Mouse Creek. (Everyone refers to her to this day as Miss Febb, which has given rise to a story that her Christian name was not Phoebe, but February). She was a strong supporter of the suffragist movement, and when she knew the vote was coming up she wrote her son a letter in which she said:

"Dear Son: Hurrah and vote for suffrage! Don't keep them in doubt! I notice some of the speeches against. They were bitter. I have been watching to see how you stood, but have not noticed anything yet. Don't forget to be a good boy and help Mrs. Catt put the "rat" in ratification. Your mother"

("Help Mrs. Catt put the 'rat' in ratification" referred to a cartoon featuring the great suffrage leader Carrie Chapman Catt, who was in Tennessee at the time, lobbying hard for passage.)

On August 18th, the day of the vote, there was a surprising tie: forty-eight votes for, forty-eight against. Harry Burn was the final vote, the one that would break the tie. He was wearing his red rose, and all confidently expected him to cast an opposing vote.

Instead, with his red rose on his lapel and his mother's letter in his hand, Harry Burn stood and cast his vote IN FAVOR of the Nineteenth Amendment.

He was chased out of the chamber by angry opponents, only escaping a thrashing by climbing out onto a window ledge and clambering to safety in the attic of the building. The next day, when things were a bit calmer, he made a speech to the assembly explaining why he had changed his vote.

"A good boy," he said, "always does what his mother asks him to do."

Harry T. Burn continued to serve in state government until his death in 1977. He's buried in a small graveyard right on Highway 11 in Niota, and there's a historical highway marker by the road there. Another marker, in Nashville, also commemorates that historic vote.

The votes of women, so the media tells us, will be a huge factor in this 2008 presidential election cycle. And we owe that privilege to a woman who raised her son to be a good boy.

So thank you, Miss Febb, for raising your son right, and thanks, Harry T. Burn, for minding your mother.

Happy Mother's Day to my beloved mom, and to all moms.