Lamentations on Real Things

 Suddenly taking on melancholia as the summer is gone...

This is a far cry from Mississippi in both place and time, because I'm reading a novel from a writer in New York City, published in three volumes and, alas, I'm on the last of the three books and I have less than a hundred pages to read. The single-concept of the entire novel is the 19th century lives of two men Carlos and Miguel in a life long relationship in Huelva Spain, and the last volume in this novel is approaching a fever pitch of how badly the Spanish were treated by the British, when the British opened up and operated a copper mine near Huelva, Spain, in the southern part of the country. This is by no means the gist of the novel, which is really about life and those who lived it within the satellite orbit of Miguel Rios, the narrator, and Carlos his partner. It's a marvelous novel with all the authenticity one can get through the truth only fiction can relate, solidly grounded in historic Spain of the late 19th century, and in this case the Riotinto mine massacre; this is but a part of this story. Still, in the final pages of this novel, I am in a state of melancholia, not only for the characters in the book but perhaps for the nature of humankind, the nature of living on a planet and the physical plane of existence.

The novel Carlos y Miguel is in three parts: Book I Among Holm Oaks and Rock Roses; Book II Light on the Water; and Book III Going Home. The author is currently working on a revision that will soon be appearing on Amazon, but in the meantime, here is a link to all three books. Here

But for today, for this postcard from Mississippi, I'm distraught about the actual process of open pit copper mining and the deep, deep scars on the earth it has wrought all over the world.  The pictures here show the Riotinto mine and the Riotinto river, which gets its blood-red color from the iron in the water, along with other minerals. The book I'm reading has brought me to thinking longer about such mining operations. In the story we are shown how the characters' lives were utterly destroyed by the large companies that could render such wounds to the earth and poison the people of Huelva and the surrounding pueblos. L.A. Charles's novel is about so much more but is also historically correct.

So, it's fall, and while the weather is still warm enough to run around in shirt sleeves (here in the south), fall is a time of massive transition, between the lush greenery of the summer and the fallow landscape of winter. It is one of my favorite times of year, but also one of the most internally lamentable as things die. It is not that L.A. Charles's novel of Carlos and Miguel is melancholy, nor lamentable, but it is a depiction of real life through the marvelous lens of a novel.

Truly a Winter of Discontent

2020 and the final days of winter...

 

Your Blogger Ronald Donaghe
Mississippi Transplant in 2016

Not to put too fine a point on the misery that the entire country felt with the pandemic, the election in November, the long drawn out sore loser "stolen election" rabble rousing, the seditious attempt to overthrow the US Government by wildly confused people who thought they were the ones who were the patriots—all of this stacking up at the end of 2020 continuing into 2021 made me extremely damned glad the country came out on the other side of everything with hope for a return to normal, and vaccine shots rapidly becoming available for everyone. Maybe being closed in for several months before things began to open up a bit made people a little stir crazy. I live alone and stay at home anyway now that I'm retired and have a life that doesn't depend on parties and bars and crowds, but I am also glad that I can go spend a delightful morning here in Columbus and listen to the other patrons talk and visit and be polite to one another. Southern charm and hospitality and politeness have yet to disappoint me. Oh, I know the other reality is that unspoken thing about Southern inhospitality for Yankees (very old term I think) and racism and whatever.

Half my extended family are Southerners, anyway, and the other half are Irish, and the third half are down-to-earth, honest, hard-working people—just like my neighbors in my part of town, here in Columbus. We're not all Southerners by birth in my neighborhood, but we moved here by choice. It's a delightful old town full of architectural variety from antebellum to Victorian to Craftsman to mid-century modern. 

And last week I attended one of the first traditional activities to re-open during the pandemic: Tennessee Williams's Birthday celebration. He was born in March 1911 and this year would have been 110 years old.

Two of Columbus's entertainers played Tennessee Williams's Mother and the young Tennessee Williams, who returns to Columbus every year to celebrate his birthday.  It takes place in the house where Williams was actually born, here in Columbus, and which is now used as the city visitor's center. The play we watched was performed in the house's parlor, and most of the rooms are restored to what the house would have looked like when Tennessee Williams lived there.

Later on in the year, another Tennessee Williams's inspired activity will be the Stella Shouting Contest. More on that when the time arrives.

But back to the winter of our discontent, Spring is now here and the weather is slowly accommodating our renewed feelings of hope that things will get better as we get further from the ravages of 2020. My backyard has volunteer crocuses and one species of tree has already filled with white blossoms and another with pink blossoms; oh, and dang, I have to hop on my yard tractor and mow that large yard...now where did I put my work boots and pants and gloves? Time's a wastin'.