Listen to the children while they play
Now ain't it kinda funny what the children say. . .

My niece the Princess had a Bday over the weekend. The party was held as usual at a local park. In attendance: a gaggle of giggling preteens,her mom and dad, Bubba and his girlfriend, a set of grandparents, Aunts Liz and Fairweather, cousins, and assorted parents of the gaggle. Some ducks crashed the party for cake but settled for hamburger buns, while the resident geese elevated their bills and congregated at the far end of the pond, apparently peeved because their invitations were lost in snail mail.

A good time was had by all, despite the drought and a murderously hot wind that blew out the candles before they lit. There were lots of presents, and the cake featured the Princess's latest favorite TV character.

Sis (my sister, the Princess's mommy)and I ended up, once the cake was served, at a table with most of the giggling gaggle. Sis was dispensing advice to the lovelorn--all of them already have boyfriends, one gathers--and I was drowning my laughter in Sprite Zero and hearing Tammy Wynette wrily croon "kids say the darnedest things" on the soundtrack in my head when one of the little dolls began to confide in another about the breakup of her parents' marriage. In so doing she used a racial epithet she can only have learned from some adult stuck in a really bad time warp. Her companion, fortunately, had never heard the word before; when she asked her to repeat what she'd said, the offender used a more politically correct generic term, but we freaked nonetheless. Up until then she'd been angelic, if somewhat of a drama queen (and I do know drama queens, being a diva myself), and frankly we were too shocked to remonstrate with her.

Sis recovered faster than I did. I thought about throwing myself into the pond to create a diversion, then remembered I can't swim; before I could switch to Plan B--the onset of whooping cough--Sis yelled, "Time for presents!" and the moment passed.

I've since learned that, had I taken my quixotic plunge, the Princess could have rescued me; her summer swimming lessons included lifesaving skills. And the soundtrack intermittently breaks into the angry boom of the late Henson Cargill, circa 1968:

Listen to the children while they play
Now it's not very funny what the children say
Skip a rope
Skip a rope

Yep, it's 2007 and this is the freakin' New South--

Oh, God, we grownup clods need to be careful of our words in front of kids, unless we want our dirty linen--and our words--waved like red flags in screamingly inappropriate moments and places.

Till next time, fair thee well.

This week a writer, who has influenced the minds of children and adults for almost fifty years, left this world. This writer wrote of mundane things mixed with spiritual and added a dash of science fiction and fantasy to spice her words up. She wrote of the battle between good and evil, love and hate, tesseracts, death, and trips through time. I’m speaking of Madeleine L’Engle. She was 88 yrs old and during her last years had resided in a nursing home.
Madeleine once said "of course I’m Meg." But reading the books I always felt I was Calvin or Meg’s brother Charles Wallace. "Sports." From genetically the same family as your parent and siblings but different, a mutation. An oddity that most people couldn’t understand. The fact that Madeleine always came across as understanding the differences and making no distinction against these characters meant a lot in my everyday life.
When one of the children I babysat several years ago was old enough to say that she wanted to be a writer I started her reading the Austins books as well as the Murray books. I’ll call my girl J. J. loved them. She
devoured them. Then wanted to know more about writing. My best suggestion was to write to the author she admired most, Madeleine L’Engle. I didn’t really expect an answer back but was pleasantly surprised when the mail carrier dropped one off into my box.
"Tell that sweet child to write. Write every day. It doesn’t matter what she writes. One day I hope to see her name on the cover of a book." Now J. has stopped writing but she has taken the message behind this to heart. Keep working. Keep trying until you succeed.
Madeleine L’Engle has succeeded in being part of the lives of her readers. She was a candle lighting the way for many writers. The Wind in the door has finally blown out her candle but the light will continue to shine. Remember those who are loved are never forgotten. Rest in Peace Ms. L’Engle.
This is just Willard’s thoughts. Until Next Time, fair thee well.

On Thursday came news of the passing of Luciano Pavarotti, the greatest operatic tenor of his generation.

Even here in my little hometown, in a country where opera is only for snobs and most people say it's not even music, Pavarotti was considered a great singer and a sex symbol (especially the latter). I used to work with a guy who was terribly agitated because his wife had a crush on the chunky little man from Modena. He once wondered aloud if she would find HIM more attractive if he "weighed four hundred pounds and had a high squeaky voice." Not hardly, I told him tartly; it wasn't just the voice, it was the irrepressibly merry, come-to-Papa gleam in his eye.

OOOO, but on its own the voice was indeed a seductive instrument! I first heard Pavarotti in the late l980s, when skater Brian Boitano began using his recording of the aria "Nessun dorma" from Puccini's TURANDOT as a showpiece. Some years later I found it on a CD and in the liner notes the words, in Italian and in an English translation. The aria's middle section is surely as ravishing a declaration of love as any ever composed. But what we all remember, what all the media tributes offer as Pavarotti's farewell, is the final stanza, a clarion shout of joy and triumph:

Dilegua, o notte! Tramontate, stelle!
Tramontate, stelle! All'alba vincero!
Vincero! Vincero!

Never as sexy in English as they are in Italian, the words mean roughly,

Go, night! Set, stars!
...at dawn I will win!
I will win! I will win!

And you did, signore. Your Calaf won his princess, and you won our hearts. I listen to that golden ringing declaration and my tears roll.

Go with God. And until next time, fair thee well.

Hearings have begun in DC about the handling of the disaster at the Crandall Creek mine in Utah. Like the rest of the world, I watched in sorrow and rage as the saga played out. I had one of my infamous hillbilly hunches that the six miners would not be found alive, and now we know they will never be found at all.

That is as it should be. It would be unconscionable to continue to try to bring them out when the mine is too unstable to be safe for rescuers to enter.

And yes, I had a country music soundtrack going in the back of my head throughout the whole unsavory story. Many of you may remember that Jimmy Dean was, before he became the King of Sausage, a great country singer. In 1961 he recorded a great song about a mining man, called "Big Bad John." Dean has often told the story of working in a summer stock company with an actor named John, who truly did stand six foot six and weighed two forty five, as it says in the song. (This is all the more curious when you consider that Dean himself stands six feet five.)

I have been haunted by the ending of the song because the situation at Crandall Creek corresponds so eerily to what happens after the mine collapses and entombs John, and I think this might be the best thing to do at the mine site itself:

Now they never reopened that worthless pit,
they just placed a marble stand in front of it;
These few words are written on that stand:

(and here's what should be written over Crandall Creek--it's different in the song)

At the bottom of this mine lie six brave men
God rest their souls

Remember the families in your prayers, guys. Till next time, luv, Fairweather

Willard Clark reporting on the continuing search for the candidate for president representing the Ornery as Hellfire Club.
So far, there have been multiple nominations but not one who even begins to truly represent the ideals and values of a true Ornery Presidential Candidate or even one to represent us as a spokesperson.
We’ve had it suggested that Willie Geist would make an exceptional spokesperson but unfortunately sweet Willie is a) to nice despite being a redhead and b) too busy trying to keep all of his MSNBC coconspirators under control while traveling from show to show.
Tucker Carlson was suggested but failed when a second for the nomination couldn’t be had even with a bribe in place. Just call us the untouchables—even a bribe doesn’t work as much as we need the money. It was those ties and bad manners that did him in.
Tony Snow was suggested and received both a nomination and a second before it was decided that the poor man looked like he needed a well deserved long rest after everything the current administration has put him through in the period since working for the current George Bush.
Keith Olbermann was suggested but he was unanimously voted down when he a) refused to remove his shirt and B) when he misused a Tex Williams song on a broadcast which had Fairweather screaming imprecations and insults at the screen. It was with great difficulty that the membership restrained her from putting a contract out on him which would have entailed him being COOL-WHIPPED on the subway (would have made him edible though especially doused with chocolate syrup).
I personally suggested Josh Bernstein or Mike Rowe. Unfortunately both are extremely busy at the moment preparing for the upcoming season on the Discovery Channel. It’s really a shame since our club could use some interesting decorations. Maybe if we can’t get them to be spokespersons we could use their images in a logo or just as posters on the wall. Think we can get them shirtless? Fairweather would prefer a nude Rowe posed as the thinker. SD and I would rather just have JB naked, the hell with poses.
I also suggested Madame Sadie, Fairweather’s Mom and the Divine Miss A, all of whom declined in an Ornery way. Sigh. They would have made perfect spokespersons or candidates either.
An extremely hungover Madame Sadie was originally on jury duty until she was forcibly removed after yelling "Burn that sucker" at a jaywalker. (Needless to say her platform is "She’s tough on crime").
Miss A is basking in newfound internet stardom after posting an scathing expose on the Bear Grylls debacle from the Discovery Channel. Grylls pretended to be in the great outdoors while actually in the nearest Hilton. Wonder how much Paris made on this event just holding her tongue.
And Mom just won’t talk about it. She’s basking in her new recliner and having a high old time.
We have contacted Billy Mayes as a possible spokesperson but he wanted $39.95 plus shipping. We managed to talk his agent down to $29.95 plus shipping and our group has decided against this since it is considered that the face value is not worth $9.95 let alone the shipping.
As far as presidential candidates go the only one so far is a dark horse by the name of "None of the Above". We have been unable to find out party affiliation, sex, address or even been able to determine which part of the country he (in the generic sense) is from. Which is really a Ornery way of running if you think about it and fits perfectly with our club’s philosophy.
Until the primaries begin we’ll continue searching for that elusive Ornery candidate.
And a quick word to Sylvia, Hang on to that tree just a little while longer. The water is bound to go down sooner or later.
Until Next time Willard from the Front Lines.