If you miss the voices of Erma Bombeck and Lewis Grizzard, I have good news. An original Southern humorist, born from tenacity of strength and humor, Marlene R Buchanan brings a gift, Life is Hard Soften It with Laughter. Treat yourself to a copy, pour yourself a CocaCola and enjoy laughing out loud. Buchanan, a keen observer of the human condition , possesses a fierce love and gentle sense of humor. She shares every aspect of life’s journey. Her humor will lighten your day, her insight will remind you why you love the South and miss lunch on Rich’s bridge. Catch this great read on it’s way up!!  Sandra W.

I sat down thinking I knew exactly what A Place with a Past was going to give and then you hit me with that moment when Patricia steps onto that inherited Georgia farm and realizes the place isn’t just holding memories, it’s holding grudges. That scene where the air shifts, where the past isn’t just history but a living, breathing presence? I paused. I blinked. I literally went, wait hold on she actually knows what she’s doing.

And then I checked your author profile and suddenly it all made sense. You write like someone who understands Southern storytelling as a birthright, not a hobby. You’re not assembling chapters like IKEA furniture. You’re delivering atmosphere, generational weight, and humor with the confidence of someone who has lived around people who talk to ghosts like they’re cousins.

If you want to give this gal stars for that book, don't bother with only FIVE!! Go for fifty!!
Susan Lindsley, Award Winning Author.

Yeah, I know. I sound like a braggart, but this is what they chose to use.  I am profoundly grateful to each and every one of you who have read my books and encouraged me to continue to write. 
Thanks,
Marlene  AKA Ms Rat

​You all know I am the first to admit that I am weak in my competency with anything technical, basically a computer. I am old. I didn’t not learn this stuff when I was a kid and I only started working with computers while I was in education. If is messed something up I called the computer lab and a ninth grader was sent to my office to fix everything.

I don’t have a ninth grader available anymore. The local high school frowns on me bringing in my lab top or desk top into the school and whining for a teenager.

BUT…I have found Zoom. Now I can’t set a zoom meeting up, but I can attend one. I have a lap top that allows me to see, hear, and speak in a Zoom meeting. What a joy.

I am on the Board of Directors of four groups. Yes, I am proficient in stupidity and the inability to say no. You can be proud of me, I got off the fifth Board of Directors!!! I am proud of myself on that one.

Today I had a BOD meeting with seven women who are part of the National League of American Pen Women. Look it up if you can. Founded in 1897, it is the oldest professional organization for creative women in America. It was started because men in the newspaper and publishing fields thought women were inept. You need to see the history of this institution. It will make you proud of your history and the growth that women have gained in more than 128 years. Yes, we still need to educate men, but “you’ve come a long way, Baby.” (Please tell me you remember that line.)

But I digress, which is something I do very well. This morning the seven of us met on Zoom and had a full board meeting with elections for upcoming awards for women in the creative fields.

There we were. Seven women of varying ages. And none of us in make-up. Not a mascara wand in sight. We appeared to be clean and dressed—at least from the waist up.

It was really delightful to talk about our “in the rough and ready” stage. Without all the goo we still recognized each other. We complimented each other on how well and fresh we looked. And you know what, none of us cared that we were bare-faced. Without the cosmetics we could still take on the world. In our minds, we would win, too.

We are a fearsome lot. All of us in a creative field. I was once a visual artist, focused on print making, drawing, and sculpture. I have moved into writing in the more recent years. Other members are in the visual arts range, but we have also musicians and dancers, actors, poets, some writers, singers, you name it. We’ve got at least one in every category. 

There are many Pen Women organizations across the USA. If you are interested, check out your state through the web site. If there isn’t one in your area, contact the national office and perhaps we can help you get one started. With the creation of Zoom we can now have Members-at- Large who cannot attend an in person meeting, but can be there in through the amazement of technology.

With or without makeup.
 
Just a little information:
National League of American Pen Women, Inc.

Pen Women are professional writers, journalists, painters, sculptors, dancers, musicians, choreographers, art teachers, theater and film directors — and many others from all creative fields. We have more than 1,600 members across the United States, both at large and in more than 80 branches.
 
One of the earliest members of the organization was sculptress Vinnie Ream

In an era when women artists were not considered important, she, nevertheless, won the Congressional commission in 1866 at age 18 to carve the marble statue of Abraham Lincoln that stands in the rotunda of the U.S. Capitol. She made a bust of Lincoln, working with him in the White House before his assassination, and used it as the basis for the statue after his death.

The first meeting of The League of American Pen Women was organized by Marian Longfellow O’Donoghue (yes, Henry’s niece), who wrote for newspapers in Washington, D.C. She invited fellow journalists Margaret Sullivan Burke and Anna Sanborn Hamilton to join her in establishing a “progressive press union” for the female writers of Washington.
​
Other famous women who have been members of the organization include Grandma Moses, Georgia O’Keeffe, Pearl S. Buck, Eleanor Roosevelt, Maya Angelou, Rosalyn Carter, and Hillary Clinton, to name a few.

Having said the above, I am more than happy to be part of this remarkable women’s group, as I consider myself part of the “bridge generation,” bridging good old-fashioned in-person writing and meetings with today’s Zoom technology that makes all of us ladies look beautiful in our natural beauty!

I know I told you in September I was going to do better about getting my monthly newsletters out. I lied.  I had the best intentions, but life decided there were other I needed to do. One of which is to work on my memory.
​
Here is a little short one on Gracie, our smallest and youngest cat. If you ever come to the house you will never see her. Eleni Jordan from Parkview found her drinking from oily water in a car repair parking lot.  Gracie has been skittish all her life. She is mostly black with a little white on her face, chest and paws.  We call her the baby since she is only 12 years old. The others are 13.

Mystic has developed arthritis and diabetes. She has to get shot up twice a day.  She is doing pretty well with the diabetes, but the arthritis is in her hips and back legs. 

Figaro is still queen on the house.  She still gets her eyebrows rubbed every morning with her mini-moo.  I still sing "Moo River"  to her. 

Yes, I know.  I admit to being a little off center--like 179 degrees off center.

Here is Gracie's little story.
The Ghost Cat

​It was time for Gracie to visit the vet. She wasn't sick. I hadn't had her to the vet in 3 years. Since I had to take Mystic, the diabetic princess, and Figaro, the ornery queen of the house, I decided I'd let them check her over.

She decided they would not check her over!
Gracie was not told she was going to the vet. The words “vet” and “doctor” were not even spoken in the house. The carrier wasn’t brought in so she wouldn’t be forewarned.

We searched the house over.

There was no hiding place left unturned. We combed the upstairs, the downstairs, and found every dust bunny which had been hiding from us. But no Gracie.

We crawled on the floor, lifted bedspreads, and checked every chair in the house. No Gracie.

Special treats were brought out and placed in her favorite spots. Mystic came and ate, but no Gracie.

Catnip was sprayed in her box under the desk where she loves to lay. No Gracie.

After thirty minutes of searching and not finding this little six pound cat, I gave up. 

As soon as I called the vet and canceled our appointment she came out of hiding.

The receptionist asked if I wanted to reschedule. So I made another appointment.

Appointment two came along. Gracie was laying at my feet. Normally if I would stand she would remain sleeping in her box under the desk. Normally.

I stood up. I looked down. NO cat. Just a whiff of black fluff floating in the air. 

I searched the house for twenty minutes. I knew I didn’t have time to make the appointment so I called the veterinarian’s office to cancel and reschedule the visit.

I hung up the phone and turned around. There she sat, looking sweetly at me. I knew she was thinking “Gotcha again. No travel in my plans, Mama.”

This morning was the third appointment I had made for Gracie. She came into the bathroom and wanted to have the water faucet turned on so she could drink. I did that. 

She wanted to be combed. I did that.

I fed her. She wanted to rub against my legs.

At 9:45 am she was laying under the desk. At 9:46 she was gone. No one moved. No one breathed the word “vet.” She just vanished.

The Vet’s receptionist didn’t even ask if I wanted to reschedule. I guess the third time was it.

Gracie the Ghost Cat.

I have no idea how Dawn became Pussum Cat. I think James was trying to say Pussy Cat and it came out that way. Anyway, Dawn was mostly called Pussum. He loved it.

Yeah, that’s right. HE loved it. Two small kittens were curled up in the flower bed in front of our house one freezing rainy day. James was three I think. Mama Cat wasn’t around. Snell ran to the vet and bought special milk for kittens and we put it as close to the babies as we could. Long story short. James named them. Kissy and Dawn.

Kissy never warmed to us but would wander through periodically. Dawn was a bright young kitten and knew a good thing when she saw it. She stayed and let us pet and humor her.

Finally, one day Dawn started getting into our laps and letting us really hold her. She had to be neutered. We didn’t need any more cats to take up with us. The vet said Dawn was male. Well, gender identity was never one of our stronger traits. Don’t believe us…Delilah became Samson, Lilac the rabbit became Smokey, Figaro looks like she has a pair but is female and the Queen of the house. We need to choose genderless names.

Dawn knew his name. He and Puddles, the Puppy-Dog (oh I know, but …) loved each other. He made his way into the house and there he stayed. Forever.

Dawn was an amazing cat. Tolerant of a toddler who loved him. Answered you when you asked him a question. “Want some chicken, Pussum?” ”yaa,” he answered.” “Want some turkey, Dawn?” “Nah”. He didn’t care for turkey at all.

My husband has been in the hospital with pneumonia and a fracture T-12 vertebrae. He is hard of hearing. No, I take that back. He is deaf as a post. He wouldn’t hear the thunder if lightning struck him. I am the official hearing aid. I go where he goes. I am the official interpreter.

Being an interpreter means I have been known to do odd things to get the message across. 

While in the hospital, Snell was having a great deal of trouble understanding. He mostly reads lips. The medical staff wear masks. Yep, might as well have been blind as well as deaf.

He has pneumonia so every other syllable is punctuated by terrible coughs, followed by a moan of pain from the broken back. He was unable to answer their questions. I am invaluable, yes I am. I know all the answers. I walk in with a two page report of all of his doctors, medications, and medical history. I hand it over and the medical staff are like “Oh WOW. This is great.” 

Do yourself and your family a favor. Create a report for each family member. In a crisis you might forget a medication. Hand them the paper and your crisis is averted. I also have a 3 x 11 sheet of paper in each family member’s wallet that lists all our medications, medical contacts, and emergency contacts. 

I am also much more talented than I ever realized. Young people are more ignorant than I had realized. I told the nurses that I was having to do my Marcel Marceau impersonation to communicate. Clueless. Had no idea who the most famous mime and interpretive movement actor in the world was. I educated each of them.

Then it hit me. These adults probably have no idea of the people who made the entertainment industry truly great. They only know artificial acting and computer generated creativity. Sad.

“Do you know who Cary Grant is?” I asked several of the staff. They all said no.” Bette Davis? Ingrid Bergman? Alfred Hitchcock? Humphrey Bogart? At least, please tell me you know John Wayne?” 

I was quivering at the ignorance and innocence before me. Okay, maybe they don’t watch the great ones on the Classic movie channel.

“Do you know who Harry Truman was?” When that one got a no, I said “ever heard of the atomic bomb? Or Hiroshima? How about World War II? “Some of them had grandparents that served in Viet Nam. Okay, this was my time. They knew doodly squat about Viet Nam.

I wasn’t exactly frothing at the mouth, but it was close. Folks, you need to know a little about history so you don’t keep making the same mistakes over and over.  

So people, if you don’t know Cary Grant or Humphrey Bogart, watch a few black and white movies. You might learn what acting really is… You know where people learn the words and create a character and provide knowledge and entertainment without using a computerized brain.

Watch some old movies. Expose yourself to something besides car crashes, foul language, and green screens. Maybe you will learn something about the history of our nation. No, the movies aren’t exactly accurate, but it is better you know something than nothing about how your world has developed.

I am now going to get myself out of this invisible box and watch a Cary Grant movie, where intelligent conversation and a love stories without filth and nudity can entertain me. I have to use MY imagination. 
And Marilyn, diamonds are a girls’ best friend. 

Cary Grant, British-born American film actor whose good looks, debonair style, and flair for romantic comedy made him one of Hollywood’s most popular and enduring stars. Among his most notable films are Bringing Up Baby, The Philadelphia Story, His Girl Friday, Notorious, and North by Northwest.

​

Marilyn Monroe (born June 1, 1926, Los Angeles, California, U.S.—died August 5, 1962, Los Angeles) American actress who became a major sex symbol, starring in a number of commercially successful films during the 1950s, and who is considered a pop culture icon. She was the secnd woman to own her production company, unheard of in the male run world of movies. ​

I write the Anything Goes column for Inspirations for Better Living magazine.
(www.inspirationsforbetterliving.com)

The parent company has a radio show Every Wednesday.  I was interviewed for this Wednesday's feature.
​(www.FromMyMamasKitchenTalkRadio.com) 

I hope you will be able to listen in.  I would appreciate it very much.

The link is below.

Interview with Marlene Rutledge Buchanan and Lynn Hesse at the S. SinC meeting, Monroe Walton County Center for the Arts.

"Getting old is not for Sissies."
-Bette Davis

Talk about a true statement that is one.  

"If I had known I was going to live this long I would have taken better care of myself."
-W.F. Woodard 

I fall down. Go splat.

Me.

Yep, I am officially old. I fall down a lot. And this time I won the big prize: fractured upper orbit eye socket, concussion, scratched cornea, bruised knee caps, and lovely, colorful patches all over my face.

I guess it was good thing that I do like color, because I am a rainbow. 

I had gone under the house to find Snell. He had turned off his hearing aids and he can’t hear the phone and went under the house to change the filters on the pool. I was supposed to call him when the water level got to a certain point. No hearing aids, no phone and deaf as a post. I had to go under the house to find him.

When he'd been gone a long time and didn't answer his phone. I got worried and went looking for him. Mistake No. 1. I swore if I didn’t get a full basement under this house I would NEVER go into the crawl space. I didn’t get the basement. I got a crawl space, in which I have been exactly four times in 27 years. This was the fourth.

Mistake 2: Trusting Snell to NOT turn off his hearing aids. I was supposed to call him for heaven’s sake. He can’t hear the phone and the vibration isn’t strong enough to give anyone a thrill. 

So here I am, searching for an 85 year old man with no hearing aids working and a puny vibrator. I go all around the house. I stand at the crawl space door. I yell. I scream. I wave my hands in a please don’t be dead manner. Nothing. For the fourth time in my life I go under the house. Mistake #3.

Over in the corner, way over in the corner, is Snell. “I thought you were going to call me.” 

Me “What is wrong with your phone?” 

Him“Nothing, I guess. I had to turn my hearing aids off because the pool motor was making so much noise.
 
Mistake 4:  Putting the pool motor, etc. under the house. (I didn’t’ vote for that either)

 Mistake 5: Telling me he turned off the hearing aids and looking puzzled at my concern.

Mistake 6: Telling me later in the ER he discovered he had accidentally turned off the vibrator to his phone.

In exasperation I turned and started walking/crawling to the door. The space is 4 feet high. I am 5 feet 3 inches on a good day. It was not a good day. I was mimicking the Hunchback of Notre Dame in walk pattern.

The crawl space floor is concrete. I’m not sure if I won the fight, but I beat that concrete floor into submission with my face.

I hit left eye first. My hands are not even scratched. I didn’t even try to break my fall. I just hit the floor and skidded on my face, filling my left eye with concrete dust.

 “What’s the matter? Did you fall? Are you okay?” No, I like laying on a concrete floor in a claustrophobic crawl space that I both resent and hate.

I just lay there. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t think. All I could was hurt. I had a baby. This pain was so much worse.
​
I was covered in concrete and other dust. My eye was filled with blood and dirt. My knees would not support my weight. I was gasping for air and inhaling dust, dirt, any critters that had died under the house.  And it had started out as a very pretty and productive day. 

After several minutes, Snell was able to help me get out in the blinding bright light and fresh air. I tried to wash some of the dirt off my face. I washed my eye out with a saline solution repeated. Finally the majority of the dirt was out of my eye. My eye is swollen shut and the knot on my head could be used to carve one of the busts from Mt. Rushmore.

Snell dropped me off at the ER entrance and I walked in. I thought I was doing okay by then, except for blindness and the headache. “Excuse me. I need some help.”

One of the nurses looked at me and said “You sure do, Honey. What is your name and social security number?” Admission and fee paying always comes before treatment and/or death.

I remember looking at her and thinking “Social Security Number.” I know I was in shock. I remember starting to say something and then I am falling backwards. Before I hit the floor someone caught me and then a chair was slamming under me and my sore knees.

The next thing was a very bright room. I couldn’t see it was so bright. I had to shield my one open eye. The lights dimmed. “I’m Dr. whose name should not be mentioned for his indifference. How badly are you hurt?”

Duh. What do you think, Doc.? I have an ostrich egg on my forehead. My eye is swollen shut. I just passed out in your entrance way. “Gee, Doc, I bumped my wittle head.” I could have strangled him with his stethoscope.

Now this is the truth. When someone for whom I care goes to the emergency room I am there. I know enough about medicine to be dangerous but I am great at emergency care. I can butterfly a gash as pretty as any ER doctor. I can even to do Madison Bandage on an open torso wound. I am never hysterical. I am never nauseated. Blood is just interesting. I make sure that every wound is checked, treated and it is right.

That doctor never came fully into the room. No one cleaned the concrete out of my facial wounds. My knees were never touched. I was skinned from in my hair line to my chin on the left side. My shoulder was painful and I couldn’t lift that arm well.  I was just one bigopen dirty strawberry burn. Except that some places were very deep. The space above my left eye and on my left cheek bone were deeply raw.  He ordered a CT scan. That was it. Oh someone gave me a barf bag. I remember being very nauseated.

CT scans revel I do have a brain, perhaps a big jiggled up. It did not show the fracture of my upper left brown bone. Another doctor a week later determined that injury.

 I do not have a personality eyebrow any more. I cannot lift my scolding, loving, quizzical eyebrow. That brow is very important to my demeanor and my ability to communicate.

Two weeks later my left eye opened. Dizzy spells have continued for all that time with a headache that simply pounds. Light is an issue and so is noise.  The headache lasted off and on for nearly four weeks.

I have saved quite a bit of money on make-up. No spackle is strong enough to cover this colorful face. People are nice to me. I get lots of kindness.  

It was all Snell's fault. I don’t care what he says!!!