Old Mill as Cathedral

You want to know how I’ve come to live such a long life – you want to know my secret? I’m not granting interviews this year. This statement will have to suffice.

Yes, I was born in 1894, near the Old Mill. Augusta County has always been my home. On the twenty-third anniversary of my birth, June 23, 1917, I celebrated my wedding day. No time to wait for the formal ceremony slated for October at the Augusta Stone Church, I was married at the Old Mill instead, but not in the traditional sense.

The Old Mill served as Cathedral in emerald setting, but there were no witnesses, save those of the natural world standing for us. Fresh-picked blossoms with greenery for bridal bouquet. Ray of sun for candlelight. Birdsong for wedding march. Rustle of greenwillow-boughs whispering like wedding guests as I made my way up the pebbled path of the Old Mill to my waiting Beloved, blue of eye. I accepted joyfully the thin gold band, like grasping brass ring of carousel, I was the luckiest girl in the world - the most beautiful, the most treasured. I pledged him my life - he pledged me his unending love. Not his undying love. Would I the choice, my legacy would be to change the very lexicon of this land, eliminating all forms of the word death. Did Jesus die for us? No, I tell you, he lived for us, setting the perfect pattern for mankind. The expansive green grass lawn of the Old Mill was our reception hall as twilight approached. And the Old Mill itself transformed yet again from Cathedral to honeymoon-suite haven as we loved at the mill, danced at the mill, loving and dancing on our wedding night, in every sense of the words.

My Beloved left the next morning, called to duty in service of our country. That call to duty had been the very impetus for our hasty, impulsive decision to secretly wed in ceremony of our own making.

Daybreak of March 23, I welcomed with heart only the one born of our Old Mill tryst, for my arms were denied the precious one they would eagerly hold, even a momentary vision was denied me. I know not if they wrapped my little one in rose-floral flannel or dusty blue. Word was received that morning that my Beloved was called to heaven by the very flu that kept him busy stateside, burying his fellow East Coast servicemen. The same flu that had kept me from him, as quarantine was declared. My Beloved had signed on to fight the good fight in what was known as the Great War, but was defeated by what was to become known as the Great Flu of 1918. My Beloved and my Babe were gone from me in a one-day mystic-cruel twist of fate. My little one taken, and those that did the taking are lost to me and I to them in every sense of the word, lost permanently, lost completely, lost.

I put my fiddle down that day, didn’t play, couldn’t play, would that I tried. I didn’t speak, couldn’t speak, for three years, would that I tried. And yet I accepted no guilt, rejected the shame. Judge me not, for I have paid the highest price for being true to myself and to my Beloved.

Just one woman I could rely on throughout determined to care for me in every sense of the word, her devoted friendship to me willed through generations of daughters that care for me still. She willed me their friendship, their friendship is willing, to this day.

Do you still want to know how I’ve come to live such a long life? Do you still want to know my secret? Two things and two things only, I tell you. The wondering, the endless wondering, had been my baby blue of eye? And the remembrance of green on my wedding day.

May Topic: An Inheritance

HAPPY MAY DITALINI EATERS!
Here's my suggested May topic:
Imagine you've inherited a sum of money from a relative who was a successful entrepreneur. It's at your disposal but with a stipulation: the relative wants you to use the money in opening a commerce/service of your choice, to continue the entrepreneurial lineage. What will it be? Explain who works there, and what you offer or serve. The story will develop from this.
Micro-topic: (for those who want a little extra bite of Ditalini): pick one day of the week and describe with honesty how it feels to you, what it is for you. Or you can describe the feeling tone for each day of the week if you wish.

Banner Changes

I just created a new banner/header to replace the old winter-themed one that was there for so long. I want to keep working on it to make it nicer, but in the meantime I figured I should throw it up there and utilize it since it features a nice blue sky reflecting our Springtime relief here in the Midwest. I know you West coasters aren't feeling such a change ... :0)

The Miller's Letters

I had my nose in a book The Miller's Letters when I saw faded blue jeans step up to the table to the left of me. Then, he knelt, a face. I turned to meet his smile with a smile.
"Whatcha readin?" he asked.
"Oh, it's The Miller's Letters."
"That old musty classic? It's not too boring?" He whispered. We were, after all, in a library.
"No. I like it. It's romantic. The author finds an abandoned mill in Provence and decides to live in it alone. He spends his time writing and he feels alive for the first time."
"Well, if you like that kind of thing."
"Oh, yeah, I feel like I'm in the candle-lit mill, sitting beside him at his writing desk."
He let out a stifled laugh.
"Hey," he asked, "you wanna go get something to drink with me?"
"No, I'm too busy."
"Well, how about a concert on Friday?"
I thought about it, not sure if I wanted to endure yet another concert that I couldn't wait to end, my ears buzzing, wasted time.
But I was trying to make new friends. He seemed genuine.
"Okay," I said, hoping maybe the concert was a classical one.
He picked me up and we opened the door of the venue, music so loud, I held my ears. I couldn't hear what he said to me. It was dark. Cigarettes burned red, held, then dropped. Blacklights beamed florescent bras and underwear strung on the ceiling and walls. Beers passed in plastic cups, dreadlocks, musicians on stage in zoot suits screaming, "Merci a Tous!" after each eardrum battering song, stares from boys in black and converse shoes, whiffs of cannabis. I'm dressed for a classical recital, my olive green leather bag gripped tight, I ask,
"Would that be okay if we left early?"
"A beer first?" he shouted close to my head.
"Oh! No, I just want to go."
We walked out onto the still parking lot, heels clicking, smiling, twirling, squeeling at being free, fresh air, eyes to stars.
"Was that hell?" He asked concernedly.
"I wouldn't say that," I said, wanting to say that.
We went to a bar instead, adding water to anisette, turning it chalky white, taking the cylindrical glass to our lips, talking, watched the bartender clean glasses with a white rag.
I continued to meet this man consecutively every weekend and when summer came he invited me for a week in Provence where his brother lived.
I was excited about discovering another part of France and besides, I liked this man, he was gentle and kind.
So we departed by train, leaving early, arrived there by afternoon. His brother, tan, confident strutter, greeted us at the train station, kiss on each cheek. We went to pick up baguettes to go with dinner and then to his home.
We sat at the table. He offered to take us on a hike the next day, he was off work.
We were delighted and I soon found myself walking down a sunlit, brambly, lavender fringed path and face to face with the mill I read about when I first met my new companion.
There it was, abandoned, with a marble plaque, "Here lived A-D- author of The Miller's Letters...."
I got chills, pictured the admirable man inside, writing, living his very own independent kind of life.
I couldn't have imagined that when I was reading so absorbedly about this mill, that I would shortly after be standing in front of it and I thought about this for the rest of our time in Provence.
I bought a copy of The Miller's Letters for my very own and I cherish it. When I look at it, it reminds me that life is magic if only I concentrate on something, and then have the courage to say, "yes."

Open to interpretation

"I don't get it."

"Yeah, me neither."

"How 'bout you Jill? Can you make anything of it?"

"Are you guys serious? Don't you see it? In the distance, over there, is an eighteenth century detached four-bay three-storey rubble stone mill set back just off the river. The splendors of the pitched slate roofs with clay ridge tiles, the red brick running bond chimney stacks, and the iron rainwater goods on rendered squared rubble stone eaves were the first things to draw my attention. The random rubble stone walls, the waterwheel, the square apertures to the eaves level, and the dressed rubble stone buttress to the return block are at the forefront as well. It's simply and utterly breathtaking.

And look over there; a patch of green ivy grows on the detached two-bay two-storey rubble stone mill to the south, partially covering a second storey window. The square-headed door opening to first floor with the red brick voussoirs, and a timber boarded door is reminiscent of many other mills of its day. I can also see that the mill is slightly set back from the road and the gravel forecourt is also visible. The time and thought that must have gone into this piece is simply amazing.

The day looks to be a balmy overcast summer afternoon. The river is calm, not a hint of wind present to stir the leaves on the surrounding trees. The branches of a weeping willow gently drape down as if longing to gently kiss the surface of the water. The reflection of the rubble stone mill glistens off of the tranquil river, and all is at peace. This is such a wonderful look at undisturbed beauty at it finest. What more can I say about it? Bravo!"

"Oh...okay."

"Yeah, whatever you say Jill."

"Jeez, guys. What, you don’t think it’s open to interpretation?"

Detailed description of the mill obtained at www.buildingsofireland.ie

A conversation heard in The Old Mill.

The old man sat at the kitchen table sipping his cup of tea. His brow had a forlorn look to it.

“I need to fix the leaky roof,” he stated.

“What leaky roof?” said the old woman, hard at work scrubbing dishes.

“The leaky roof you’re standing under is what leaky roof I’m talking about.”

“Since when does the roof leak? I don’t recall the roof leaking,” the old woman retorted.

“When it rains. The roof leaks when it rains. Don’t you hear the ‘drippity-drop?”

“What’s a drippity-drop?” she asked.

"The sound of the leaking water from the roof hittin' the pail that's set there to catch the leaking water. You do live under the same roof as I, don't you?"

“Now what kind of question is that, you ask me?”

“The sort of question one asks someone who doesn’t hear the ‘drippity-drop’ of the leaky roof water hitting the pail in her own home. The same home she’s been livin’ in for 35 years.”

The old woman laughs. “Ah! You’re hearing things, you are. Leaking roofs and ‘drippity-drops’. 35 years, you say? Seems more like a hundred, if the truth be told.”

“All the more reason why a hundred-year-old roof would be leaking, don’t you think?”

“I don’t do the thinking around here. You do all the thinking around here. You spend all your time thinking while this house falls to pieces around us.”

“Falls to pieces?" the old man says. "Why there’s nothing wrong with this house. This house is as solid as the day the first stones were laid, woman.”

“What about the leaky roof you’ve been going on about?”

“You don’t know a thing about roofs, do you? Do you know how many different roofs have been laid on this house? That is certainly not the original roof.”

The old woman grunts as she continues washing dishes.

“What was that?” asks the old man.

“What was what?”

“That – what you just did?”

“I sighed. It’s a sigh.” she says.

“Never heard you do that before.”

“We’ve been married for 50 years and you’ve never heard me sigh?”

“Not like that.”

“Oh go on, you.”

“I think it was a grunt and you’re just saying it was a sigh ‘cause a sigh sounds more cultured than a grunt,” stated the old man, feeling quite confident that after 35 years of marriage he can discern between a sigh and a grunt.

“What do sighs and grunts have to do with a leaky roof anyways?”

The old man sips his tea. “Nothing. But you’re the one who said the roof didn’t leak.”

“It doesn’t.”

The old man rose, grabbed his tea and walked over to the window, peering out over the pond situated in front of the mill house.

“Maybe I’ll do some fishing today.”

“Fishing where?” the old woman asked.

“Fishing where. Fishing right out here in our pond is where I’d be fishing.”

The old woman shook her head. “You’ll be getting’ no fish from that pond.”

“Why’s that?”

“ ’Cause there’s no fish that live in that pond, is why. Don’t you think that if there were fish in that pond we’d know about it? Don’t you think that after 35 years of livin’ here that if you would’ve caught one fish from that pond that I’d know because I do all the cooking and fryin’ ‘round her and I’d remember if I was fryin’ fish you caught from that pond?”

“I’ve fished that pond hundreds of times, you know.”

“Then where’s the fish?” the old woman asks.

“They’re still in the pond, bastard fish.”

“Don’t be blamin’ the fish for your inability to use a rod and reel properly.”

“I know how to handle a rod and reel. And even if I couldn’t, what difference would it make as, according to you, there are no fish in that pond.” The old man takes a long, slow sip of tea and speaks under his breath. What did she know about fishing anyways? The old man thinks some more. “I’ll bet there’s not one fish in that pond. All killed off by the mill. I bet that’s the reason I’ve never caught a fish from that pond.”

“What was that you said?” says the old woman, half listening and half cleaning the dishes.

“Nothing.”

“You’ve never caught one fish from that pond,” said the old woman, half listening and half cleaning the dishes.

“Right,” says the old man. He takes another long sip of his tea, smiles and mutters under his breath. “Throw her in that pond, is what I’d like to do.”

“What was that you said?” asked the old woman.

“Fishing in that pond is for fools, is what I said.”

“Oh. Well, now you’re finally talking sense.”

“Sure,” said the old man back. As he gazed out the window, he noticed sections of the stone wall near the pond falling into disrepair. He turned to his left and saw the vines crawling up the side of the house wall onto the roof. Those would need to be cut back. Maybe the old woman is right. Maybe the old mill is falling apart. His eyes then averted down to the mill waterwheel – silent. How fun, the old man thought, if he could get that wheel moving again. Just for show, of course.

“What was that?” yelled the old woman, still washing dishes.

“What’s what?” the old man yelled back.

“Didn’t you say something?” she asked him.

“No,” the old man firmly stated. “It was just a grunt.”

Long Time Listener, First Time Caller....

I entered the water in a single motion, slipping in between the algae and small boulders that dotted the steep bank.  The frigid temperature of the small pond took my breath away; daggers of pain shot up my toes and fingertips.  I floated to the surface on my back and flattened out my body, slowly paddling to the center while watching the evening clouds gather.  They had begun to turn from white to dusty gold, like the fields surrounding the forest.

The dark shape of the Old Mill loomed in my peripheral vision.  The river that fed the mill had long since slowed, allowing the slow-moving stream to pool into a greenish brown pond at the base of the mill. Now thick brush grew up around the skeletons of the old workers' lunch pavilions.  The gravel road was now more mud than rock.  When the mill had shut its doors decades ago, the workers either left for the city for factory jobs or returned to their neglected farms.  When a five-year drought hit, the farmers changed the course of part of the river to irrigate their fields.  When the river was diverted, the town had sprung up along its banks, leaving the mill alone in a patch of grey woods.  As the mill began to deteriorate it became less of a community meeting point and more of a teenager hangout.  

I listened to the sound of the water moving around me, remembering the game we played as kids.  We would hold our breath underwater, one of us saying something and the other trying to guess what was said once we had surfaced.  It was funny to us that although the water seemed to amplify the sound of our voices, it also distorted them, making it a difficult game to win.  

I laughed aloud, startling a few ducks at the far end of the pond. It seemed strange to remember that game, considering the circumstances.  I had returned home after college, the first in my family to leave our town.  My family seemed outwardly  proud at my accomplishments, but over time things gradually began to change.  I sometimes caught a flicker of distaste on my mother's face when I spoke about certain things.  World affairs, poetry, philosophy--there was no place for such impracticality at our dinner table.  They had sent me away to better myself, yet were embarrassed of what I had become.  There were lots of eye-rolls and "you know kids" when we were at parties and barbeques.  As the years began to march by, the eye-rolls turned into sighs of exasperation and heated, stubborn arguments that always ended in a stalemate of tears or slammed doors.

But then the Old Mill had been sold.  There were whispers of it around the bank, the drug store, and the town coffee shop.  The Old Mill had been sold to a developer from the city, a half-hour drive away.  He had purchased not only the mill and the surrounding land, but also had taken over half a block on Riverfront Street.  A new specialty store had opened, along with a cafe with outdoor seating, and an antiques shop. A bicycle and kayak rental store was planned for the summer. The dirt paths along the river, made by local fisherman over the years, were paved and lined with new trees and benches.  Now the mill was undergoing renovations to become a Bed and Breakfast and Brewery.  It shocked me, it shocked my parents, and it shocked our community.  The sleepy little town began to witness new construction for the first time in almost half a century.  The older generation was outraged with what they saw as an exploitation of small town values. But soon, my conservative family and their friends began to warm to the idea of tourists and an influx of money.  Town Hall meetings became the place to go on Saturday nights, everyone's eyes bright with the promise of prosperity.  

It was during one of those Saturday night meetings that I first began seriously thinking of my future in my hometown.  The mill and I had burned brightly for a time, but when time passed and we were no longer novel and new, we allowed ourselves to be neglected. Like the mill, I had let myself go, lulled into a sense of peace by the stagnant green pond.  I realized that night in City Hall, in a blur of excitable voices and red, perspiring faces, that if something as small and insignificant as a dilapidated building could be resurrected, so could I.  I may have served my family and my community well for most of my life, but I could not be tethered to the past. I had outgrown both my child's twin bed and my small town roots.  My life was waiting to begin.  

At the approaching darkness I swam in broad strokes to the edge of the pond.  Climbing out, I flicked my suit with a satisfying smack.  My car was waiting in the road, a map opened on the passenger seat.  I glanced once more at the Old Mill, noting with approval the test colors in shades of red painted on its repaired clapboard.  We had a plan, the mill and me.  And the future looked bright.

April Assignment - Untitled

The Old Mill is where we forged our history.

The mill existed in a dilapidated nether-world where decay was ever present but never progressed. The crumbling walls looked sufficiently sturdy, but no one ever went upstairs to test their fortitude. Inside it was dark and gray, even under harsh afternoon sunlight. The mill was abandoned long before any of us were born. We investigated county records one damp spring day, but we could not find a deed for that tract of land. So it was simply The Old Mill.

We found the mill so long ago. We were just children romping through the woods in the springtime. There were four of us in the beginning: Greg, Erich, Mary and myself but in The Old Mill we shed these facades. Others joined us through the years but enlistment was selective.

In the basement we gathered in the wine cellar, but it could just as easily have been a dungeon. Rusted fixtures adorned the walls and we hung a couple gas lanterns on the medieval decor. From the woods we dragged the biggest stumps and logs our little arms could grasp, and we pushed an overbuilt table from the kitchen to the cellar.

As kids, we found The Old Mill could become everything our imaginations wished. We traveled the world, walked on the moon, ran through time fighting dinosaurs and sabre tooth tigers and Roman gladiators and knights and Indians and the Germans. We would turn down the lanterns and try to scare ourselves with stories of ghosts and haunted houses.

As teenagers, The Old Mill satiated our lust to sample nefarious vices. We became smugglers of another time. We scavenged dumpsters and alley-ways for thrown out furniture. We hauled an absurd congregate of threadbare vintage effects from miles away to pile in the wine cellar. It was a way of moving up in the world. We carved out a style we called our own to decorate our apartment in the woods. We smoked cigarettes and marijuana, poured cheep beer and vodka, and developed a taste for scotch and whiskey that never left me. We tried to figure out what it all meant and why life goes on. Why do our parents and teachers want us to do what everyone else does and be normal and go with the flow? Where does the identity of the individual go? It gets lost and crushed amidst a gray life of algebra, PE, and puberty, we decided. Well that's not gonna be me, we declared.

And then we all packed up the van and left for college to find ourselves. Again.

We returned to The Old Mill as college students whenever people were home on breaks. Now we reminisced about our childhood and reckless high school adventures. We debated everything we thought really knew about the real world and just how everything works.

And it works like this: We all grow up and find something within ourselves that drives us to do something in life – big, small; virtuous, immoral; it doesn't matter what – but we never really change who we were when we lay with all the other newborns in the hospital. And there is something that connects certain people to one another in unexplainable ways and no matter where those individuals are in this world, they are never really apart. And that is the breath of life. Till death do us part, indeed.

The Old Mill still stands. In fact, nothing has really changed. The bricks are just as gray and dilapidated as they once were. Maybe the grass has grown a bit taller. My old bones don't move as fast as they once did, but they got me through the woods and I'm sure I can make it inside and down the worn stone steps to the cellar.

It took a long time to get down to the wine cellar, but when you're as old as I am that doesn't really matter. My friends are long gone. Either mentally or physically, I've long since forgotten what fate befell whom. The furniture we brought here those many years ago is still here and more or less intact. One of our lanterns still hangs on the wall. The chairs probably aren't as comfortable as they once were, but after a long hike through the woods, it feels good to sit.

I wish that I could have my ashes spread in this room. I feel more at home here than I have anywhere else. But I couldn't give any sort of directions that someone might even find this place. I can only find my way on instinct, and I can't do that very well if I'm dead.

I'm going to let my mind drift back to my youth when The Old Mill was filled with stories and laughter and hope and camaraderie. I have nowhere to go, and I'm quite at peace. My soul is weary, so I think I'll rest awhile.

I changed my original play blog site.

For those of you who may have visited my blog, Plays of Jeffrey James Ircink, or followed it (Katie & Imprimatur), I've switched it over to Wordpress. I've been working with it for a couple months and finally got everything transferred over. Still playing with things and discovering the in's and out's of Wordpress, but I'm much happier with this one. Looks more professional. I'd be interested in your opinions.

Bumbershoot - The Plays of Jeffrey James Ircink

Google Ads....

Everyone,
I think the addition of ads on the Ditalini Press is my fault! I have a terrible virus on my computer and it somehow activated "Adsense" to the our site! I apologize and hope I've permanently removed them. So sorry. That is not our style.

On Line Ads

Just have to say I'm not crazy about the google ads I'm seeing on the Ditalini Press. I considered signing up for the same thing on my blogs but decided against it and I have no regrets. Do we really need these ads? I'm an outsider and not an original family member, so I respectfully submit my opinion to those of you who have worked to make this blog what it is today. Either way, you have my respect and my continued support. "I'm just sayin'"

All the Books in the World

I, unfortunately, haven't been able to get anything done here for DitPress these last two months because school has me bogged down like you wouldn't believe. 18 credits is a lot of work. Anyway, here is something that I wanted to post last month, but didn't get around to it. The story/artwork is (of course) not my own, but it fits the theme and I want to share a wonderful story with all of you.

p.s. I am working on a short story for my english class, and I will hopefully have that uploaded sometime this month.

The Summer of 68'

I remember the summer of '68 when graduation was quickly receding in the rear view mirror of my life and a limitless future ran before me. I was young. I had my high school diploma, an old beat up car, and the possibility of moving away as quickly as possible from the cold and bitterness of my mothers house.

It was so hot that summer. Temps hovered in the 90's with a humidity unheard of for Wisconsin. Air conditioning in cars meant opening the windows, hitting the gas pedal, and driving like hell to beat the heat radiating from the pavement. Gas was cheap, so driving was the average Americans form of entertainment. It was my favorite way to spend an afternoon.

One torrid Saturday afternoon, after listening to my mothers endless tirade of complaints, I donned a perky sundress and hopped into my car to escape once again. Even with sweat dampening the back of my dress, I felt cool and free and hopeful. I began to fly aimlessly down the back roads of the Wisconsin Kettle Moraine area. Just knowing the Indians had been there long ago, made me feel a part of the landscape. With my dark complexion, long straight black hair, and facial bone structure, I could easily pass for those who had come before me. I imagined that I could find some cool forest retreat where I could spend the day alone and at peace with only the ghosts of past generations to keep me company.

Time and miles fell silently behind me until I came upon a gravel road which appeared to lead no where. The rutted lane ran through a wooded acreage, and the coolness of the trees appealed to me, so I turned on to it. I slowed as the dust from the road began to rise around me and pour into the windows of my car. The lane seemed to be following a small stream. After a while, I came upon a broken down wooden gate which made it impossible to go any further by car. It was cool along the edge of the woods, and so I left my car parked in the shade and continued to follow the lane on foot.

About half a mile down, the stream began to widen into a river which was being fed by many similar streams along the way. I noticed a slight clearing ahead and continued toward it. Suddenly, the lane made a sharp turn, and as I rounded the corner, I was struck with a vision of fairy like quality. Peeking out from the woods and underbrush along the river, was an old mill. Silent now, it seemed to have become a part of the vegetation itself. Shadow and light played tricks on my eyes, as mist from the water moistened the moss along the masonry base of the structure, making it appear to take on an emerald glow with diamonds sparkling wherever the sunlight fell.

Once men had built this structure to enhance their lives. It was apparent that a mill this size would have accommodated an entire community in their efforts to turn corn and wheat into flour. But now the people were gone and only this building remained. The earth had reclaimed what man had tried to take possession of. Even the ivy which covered most of the stone walls seemed to say, "This is ours once again." I was mesmerized by the serene silence of this once bustling area. How foolish was man to change such peace into disharmony and even chaos. How much better for nature to reclaim what was always hers.

I approached the waters edge with reverence, and caught the reflection of the ivy covered masonry mirrored on its surface. Looking deeper, I saw my own reflection quietly smiling back at me. I wanted to remain forever in this magical place, but I was young with my future stretching before me. I knew that I would have to live amidst the chaos of what we call civilization. For now, I would have to endure my mothers bitterness. Soon I would enter the factories, put in an eight hour day and come home to an efficiency apartment. Someday I would marry and have children and become entrenched in the day to day necessity of working for a living.

I turned from the mill and began the slow and painful walk back to my car; back to the reality that was my life. I left my peaceful spirit behind me among the ivy and the moss, and headed back to the concrete jungle which I called home. In my heart, I hoped that someday, if I worked very hard and did what was expected of me, I would return to this place or one just like it, and retire outside of the grasp of mankind where I would allow nature to reclaim what was rightfully hers, and be at peace again.

Stop the presses...Part Deux.

April Fool's. "The Old Mill" topic is ready for your submissions. Nerts.