Kay Buena’s blog

With that in mind (?), I am currently on hiatus from writing these stupid blogs, so I can concentrate on music, the piano and the guitar, not that that has been picked up and strummed for about 15 years, but it’s different, and that’s an important quality.  One must at some time stop the madness or you get type casted.   Also, having some new music that was not recorded during the McKinley Administration (1897-1901) by Kay Buena and the Associates, would be a nice change. Ahreaaaaveaderchi, you mothers.

     Once in the line of duty, “Betty Jane”, my childhood’s favorite doll and clever female detective ,associate of the master crime fighter of yester-year “Foxie” (see Betty Jane’s laundry day, where she “unplugs” that box thing (my old Dell Computer) and hangs up her wet laundry all over it’s parts and portals, for the tale of her reappearance in my life and consciousness.)  Although, she was basically an anarchist and my very most favorite doll, she was intolerant of idiocy or things with no purpose.  She took great offense at the obviously offensive ”modern Radio”, that she heard on one of those random Mp3 like programs coming from the box.  Where was the music she craved to hear?  And what was this crap she heard when she came back “in there” to the current time, when beside my computer in the down stairs Work Room she once again took control? It was not a southing, restfull, Spiritually satisfying  addition to the ambiance, that, in her ever modest opinion, was craved.  But Having “Betty Jane” there to discuss or repeat unnecessary truths, was more or less a “freeing” experience to what and which direction things flew, as little is of no consequence to us both when we are quite busy.  However, all had changed in the absence of her participation and she was none too pleased with how this happened, regardless of mine or anyone elses wishes. In fact, the concept of the word Random, pissed her off most assuredly.  And lets face it; ain’t nothing really too dang “random,”  that is ever picked out by this blankety blank computer, no how.

     And music is something that everyone relates to, in their own way, with their own ears, usually a choice that has been made by the listener, for his or her needs at the time,  however dusty, germ infested, mold infested the ears of said listener may be; but what she heard now, did not make her feel good.  When you don’t “get” the locals’ music played constantly in one’s newly awakened and transferred assignment,  all dolls and people tend to feel alone, maybe totally alienated from life and truly sad.  Lets face it, right next to that Box thing which that old lady stares down for many a moment, next to Betty Jane’s person was a grown up and over the hill version, she thought, of who could be my former little girl and playmate (that would be me to whom she refers here) but who knows?  She could be an actor, that happens too.)   We are both a little old-time for that place that offensively plays here in her space as far as musical history is concerned. Hasn’t she noticed this?   So, whats the point?: Who needs that?   What we don’t need in this junk room, is something that makes you feel bad or out of it.   No way! It’s bad enough as it is. 

      Regardless of one’s surroundings:  What we want is music that’s up-lifting and familiar, that is like a warm bath on a very hot or cold day, or when we put on freshly ironed clean clothes and are prepared for the possiblity of the Queen of Englands visit for tea… Frankly she was “antsy” in these surroundings. as it is said, ” who ain’t, ain’t worth knowing”. (1.>)

     She was used to the greats: Chuck Berry.  Little Richard.  Muddy Waters.  Hank Williams.  Ernie K Doe.  Ike and Tina;  (lets face it, there is an extreme difference in AM radio from the years 1951-2005 when she popped back into life.  But fortunately for her, that old lady was a familiar spirit, and she had the good sense to to play her entire collection of Koerner, Ray and Glover; lasting about 2 hours.  Much better.  (”shake it on down” Dave Ray….) These accepttable three persons are very good and obvious maniacs harmonizing in that magically rambunctious fugue- like rendition ( that they did in their yout) and it was Just the thing.  Thats a conforting expierence for all.  We (Betty Jane and I) share an intense regard for the lyrics and cadence of language.  I feel a  sad presence now.  It must be because Betty Jane fears she is “homeless” to some extent, as this music and havoc  going on in the here and now is beyond redempton. In that she surly doesn’t belong here; where the inevitablity of  depression, stress, and sheer frustration, builds up in such a big way, in such a big silent and strange  house, until someone inevitably flips their lid.  Said Betty Jane: ” who needs this here?”

    By the by, the secret to a good one-on-one relationship is, often, simply making sure you take turns blowing one’s top.  Do that in such a manner as to make sure the “flip out” does not happen in duality; but if it does, it is best that the “two head explosions” not happen at the same time. Things get messy, but that’s the way it goes, life.  and all that.   OK.

   As has been Betty Jane’s and my experience, when the  “lid is fliped’, this is best discribed as a nervious breakdown, or can be so serious as to be suspected of being a sociopathic fit;  when what’s really going down, is merely  that ones temper is  completely lost.  The cadence is broken, and attention spans differ, no question about that;  It’ is normal to express your self when you  need something or someone badly and all you get is the side of a box.  I don’t care what your circumstances are or who is running the show.   Even if they look like her little girl, Caroline U Hiney Hine, it is possible but not probable that that person is she who once was that little girl.  But little girls come and go, and in this family those little girls have come, and gone, and went way over the top, and beyond the great divide for some time as a great tradition never to change, but that does not matter here.   And It is always really hard to remember a name, if It’s way too long.   Who does?   Not this doll, but some instinctual voice is telling Betty Jane that this old hag is indeed that playfully fair kid that was hers in the first place.   Sure it is.  Oh, and her little girl would answer to ”Shorty Mentally.” (S.M, for short) as she was frequiently also addressed as such.   But whomever she is or what she was called, perhaps finally she will begin to realize she has responsibilities, that she is NOT the only person in the world.  Maybe these thoughts or perhaps actions could transulate my feelings into familiar experiences that we have shared?  This is a difficult thing to do, however it is possible. The years seem just across the street when old familiar eyes connect  after a period of rest and reflection.  Like 55 years, is nothing when paired with the stone age, or when Jesus walked the earth, that was long long long ago, in a land far away. (And perfect she aint, remembering what happened to that old boy in 33 B.C.)  But we all know that.  No need to establish given facts if you believe and are patient. However 2005 years after Jesus’ birth in some way leads up to now, and fantasy is not an accepted “given” in some people or dolls.   Not everyone, but perhaps, would know or understand this, however she will, if that really is my little personage, Caroline U Hiney Hine, of the given Jungle.  So I, the every wise and honest Betty Jane, said plainly: ” Hey, Shorty Mentally, what’s wit dis dang musack?”

     If I can just reach over and hit that “Esc” key on that new fangled typewriter, that will undoubtidly cleanse the pallet.  It is important to gain the attention of the aspergian idiot connected to this here, with out question, before one’s point can be made with a facial expression or even an exclaimation.  Betty Jane squinted her glassey eyes, and pursed her very red lips.  This is a simple procedure that can be done by anyone with the nerve to interrupt one of these fiends, so don’t try this at home unless you’er really on good terms with the computer user.

 Ah, hah! That worked: what a shocking experience, however one with results.  And look who She brought here for me to meet?   James Brown, the hardest worker in show business, and “he feels good” too.(although he is a tad repetitive.)  So Betty Jane and James Brown had excellent company together and I am sure, will be engaged in many an odd and amusing adventure as one can imagine them to interact.  Click on the picture above for a closer view.  Notice how nice and clean Betty Jane’s clothing is today.  All is well.  Well, except for that box thing was annoying the absolute ravings out of both Betty Jane and her new friend.  I noticed the plug had been pulled out of the wall when next I went down to observe their progress.  Good play, yawl… Next adventure?  who knows?

AS ever,

KayBuena  of the here and now

———————————-

(1.) I said that, Caroline Abbitt Sauer  AKA     Kay Buena (who done dreamed the impossible dream one too many times.)

(

    
Betty Jane is the kind of doll that most kids can tell is a doll to “play with” and not just look at.  My mother gave me the dubious and questionably intelligent Betty Jane, on my 4th birthday.  At first with her long blond hair and a surprised look, and prim red serious smile, I took her to be the kind of doll  you look at, but was not the all together trusted friend she became.  Even though she was given to me in her own traveling trunk and with a decent wardrobe (encluding a Coat and boots, handy those’  back when  we lived where it snowed and seemed miserably cold in the winter…Where were we?  North Carolina ?, who knows… ) that my mother had made herself on the Singer sewing machine we had back then. Actually I remember how pleased I was with what was the nicest gift ever .  Though she seemed  somewhat aloof, in that manner that makes any doll too fancy when it’s new.  However, upon further examination and extensive hours spent in her company, I found her to be extremely smart, having a proclivity for solving the most heinous crimes (much like Perry Mason’s Della Street), with her wit, wisdom and logic…  three things that most 4 year old kids lack, big time. So she was ever so valuable an addition to our household back in the early 1950’s. I was a little girl then, happy but hyper, and I had an older brother, who refused to play dolls, as was his choice.  Because we moved so much, and friends came and went, my brother and I were closer than most siblings, both in age and as playmates, simply because he and I were the only kids constantly available.  So we compromised, an unusual even for sure, as we began to grow and become aware of literature and plays (this was before we had a TV, for the most part.) But radio and no TV really helped with our imaginations, and before too long my brother agreed to “play” with me and my dolls, under the given fact that all my stuffed animals were boys and all dolls were girls (my department.)  But the star of the show, and the most clever and strong of the lot was “Foxie”.

keep in mind that I am 60 years old and that I still have Betty Jane.  Foxie recieved a Military funeral years ago.  She and I once again became friends when I decided to put her next to my computer, so we could  again re-establish our relationship.  This was  just after I shot said computer.  If you click on one or all of the pictures, you can observe the direct hit at about 10 paces (a 22 hollow point-long rifle bullet went right fine amungst it’s horrible intrills) as the bullet hole can be detected near the middle of that old Dell, which I had for many years. This picture was taken about 4 years ago, before the birth of my Grandaughter and our sobering up around here.  Betty Jane does not approve of computers, as all one does all day these days, with one of these dang things, is sit and stare into what looks like a box to her. It is a a bizarre act, I must agree if you stop and think that over. I’m not talking about shooting that computer.  It had it coming, believe me…I’m talking about staring into it, for hours on end.  I am enclosing 4 pictures of the occassion of when she took over my study (or what ever room  that should be called now) and that particular wounded computer, to hang her panties and dress on a clothes line strung upon part of the unplugged computer that was handy. Where-ever that was. Well, this was convenient for her. While waiting for them to dry, she found a piece of velvet fabric which she wraped around herself as though it was a toga. Like I said, Betty Jane is no fool and doesn’t take prisoners.  She hadn’t washed her clothes in about 40 years, so I agree that it was high time to be doing that.  But that’s later.

      This “Foxie” Character first appeared in my brother’s plays &/or dramas, much to my mothers sad realization, when my brother and I played in her closet one day and found among her coats and jackets a real fox jacket, that’s collar was made of two entwined fox tails with a simplified fox head that clamped the collar together by his mouth. As bizarre as this seemed to us, there was no other option but to logically free foxie.  And although this addition to a costly coat was not an approved action, we some how, detached the fox head with it’s flowing tails from that coat with no mercy.  Then Foxie became the star of our shows, the man.  As he was an an obvious addition to our company of crime solving dolls and stuffed animals, or that was our excuse was back then. We ripped him off, grabed him and ran. This left the coat a torn up mess on the floor of my mothers closet, not that we cared.   Thus Foxie proceeded to star in our complex and semi rediculous stories, for several years until he was an unsightly mess, I must say…(and looking back in my memory, my mother put up with more crap from us two kids than most mothers, because my brother and I were hyperactive fiends.) Whats new there?    

 As one can imagine, Mother was not all together pleased with this arrangement, however she had a nice warm scarf that could top that jacket, so foxie was free at last, and obviously ours. ”Foxie” was a combo Perry Mason, violent Soldier, and very clever crime fighting genius, who would right all the many wrongs in the stories we made up. My Brother, who thinks I’m crazy as a nit house mouse, probably does not remember Foxie and that gang of merry players.  But I do. 

So More about Betty Jane’s current critiqes and adventures will appear on this site from time to time… later, and  with pictures and drawings…..to be continued…There are many a horrible but anecdotal and much revered memories of that lot to be revealed to you ,  in the immediate future. 

So check back and notice them.

Thanks for visiting my blog and I hope you’er cool, comfortable, have your feet up and a big glass of Iced beverage.  Its  105 out side in Austin , Texas.  No lie…I guess we must have had a cool front come through last night.

As ever,

Caroline Abbitt Sauer (AKA)  KayBuena@KayBuena.com

P.S.  Ms. Buena appreciates all comments of real value or idiocy, (?) to be sent to her email account, so as to back up all the software’s attempt to clear the queue of spy-ware and spam. That should make my husband very happy. Go ahead: Tell me something, that is not obscene.

     I’m so padantic, they fine me for stuff like that.  And who woud not  (ah, yoda again, so soon…)

i’m a wrtrectk.  I’m fallin apart body part, by body part;  And it  aint[ no fun, no how. I’m weary of wondering if what i do is real?  Why is it such toruble?i  t wouldn’t   have to be . I don’;t even think this things too far out there., PLease just rememeber your dealing with a phychologically-changedened challendged ‘Ortist type, who thinks she’s still a musician, who am too  old- school  as to not interest  even her, the wrtectk. I Jus out to warn yehh that, we’s in a higher plan of perversitiy in our musical interests.  I don’t know if I can sing the ‘ chopin, d minor, meditation;  The pitch would kill a couple of small dogs, but I sang it fair near to adequate, for tracks over dubed and mutli haromey vocals, ect,  solo’s… This is realy simpley Hard rock, packed up locked and then out -only enough for a couple of it to notice at the same time.  This might have an appeal to all. I hope. luch should be included to you as served by my  pointy boys; mainly my Yoa ming Siamesea kittie ad Charles, who wouldnt  stay more than 2 minutes off schedual  (his…to hwich any other suggestion of action taken or made do , by us two.  Then I gots a couple of fine tunes 1Merle Haggard’s. “ Silver Wings” ; I have an extra verse I hope he likes.  Charles cousins’ BF got a link from him not too long ago…mybe he[ll use that verse to bring that back.. He’s the one to do that, the rest just plunged into my inner being, with no excuse.  See you tomorrow.

 don’t take it real seriojusly- better it be amusing.  If sanility is in the cards yol’[’ just have to pictch in and fix it.  I’m better between all of us, we couled get real iight on a couple of songs by Bob Marlay, ‘One Cup of Coffee and I’ll go.”  It’s so semmingly seriously interesting , as in the marketing of same;  so i’m a tad demented, you’;d be too if twas you had had my life so far…I ‘ve seen the bootem of the cement clank, in psyc. watch…they have me pegged.   If Any thing terns out plasible, lets send it to Tony Glover;  I know this old boy whats; name am Powel St. John, who plays with soem fine frineds of my I speck.  Heck, maybe wE”ll send it to Tony Glover.  I knew that old boy. back in the old days.  I’m too tired to be horibliikty absutd.  If I don’t; watch I will play Chopin, if only Shadria was able ot come…she sight reads I would ‘magine, she plays so buetigully, that it breaks your heat. and If if there were a coupli of closet Mike Mucus’es in the lead guitar trick area. have we got a deal for you.

Sorry, I’m real tired.  got to sleep, maybe.  drink lots of liquids, we’ll give yhe a tea bag ter suck on later.

 Abbitt Sauer (AKA) KayBunea   luck be wit jeh, yee who’d more than erned it.  I

…the mierde hit the fan, as it tends to do.

              Lackluster Thought buster

If you took every thing you knew and divided it by two,

you’d be on to what you knew, wouldn’t you?

But if Time was like a clock, and was measured glued and locked,

would you sit around and watch?

Today, being father’s day, it only seems appropriate that I tell you fine folks a bit (pun) about my Dad, Col. Charles Webb Abbitt (U.S.A.F.(ret.)), who has always amazed me in many ways: How could a person, regardless of age and other factors, be so gol darned disciplined about actually doing the things he says he will do? Once I asked him something about this, when I was in high school in Houston, Texas, as every morning he’d hit the freeway way before 7:00am.  His job was high pressured as he was involved in the design and activation of Mission Control from the start till that day of my inquisition in the  the early l960’s( first from 1956 at the “cape”, an then where Headquarters for the Space Program for the USofA moved on to Houston.) He said something to the effect of “I have no choice in the matter.”

This was a shocking answer to me, sluggard Military Brat that I had always been. But the sheer, clear, Black and white, finite answer to my estupido question, made me realize right then, that any person’s present, and future is dependent on their past. I know that is a reality seemingly dumber than a door knob.  And that I realized that- so late in life-was not a prodigy- like philosophic sign.   However, that was the time, when one of those “eureka”, life changing thoughts, satorial to my 16 year old person, was revealed to my feeble brain.  Believe me, those kind of thoughts didn’t start haunting me until my old age, when it’s way too late to change.  But here is my rational theory for his dependability and dedication for exellence (way beyond the call of duty):  My good old Dad graduated from Virginia Military Institute, back in the days when they where still being tortured and trained to be cavalry soldiers. There were no “female, women of the opposite sex,”in those days as students (his quote) to distract them, as there are now. And just as an example, all VMI students slept with the windows open, regardless of how cold it was in Lynchburg, Virginia, in that Winter. Each “rat” or freshman took his turn being the one to go close all the windows and light the fires in the winter before revelry (05:00 am. eastern time.) And all students carried their rifle on their right shoulder at all times (just to get used to that…) to class, to eat, etc.  My mom always claimed that was why his right leg was 1/2 shorter than the left one, and looking back she was probably right.  Dad went from a loving family life, not far from their family farm at 16 years old- into that Intense and really quite brutal training, and to say nothing of difficult college classes, all in one 4 year experience. (Heck, it took me 5 years to get my BFA at UT, and I graduated mostly cause they’d had it with me. ) He majored in Electrical Engineering, ’cause he found that “right interesting.” And Dad graduated in 1941, only to be sent right into the U.S. Army (no summer vacation for him). This was before the United States was officially at war, however there was a R.A.F. in England, and soon there was an U.S. Army Air Corp as well. At one point his brigade was flying gasoline to the ground troupes Under General Patton, as the Alis made progress to the Rhine River in Germany and on to crush the Nazis. All with out getting blown up to smithereens, even once.

I am one lucky “Baby-Boomer” to be alive today, considering the dangers he faced during his whole career during World War II, and the remaining dangers he continued to face  with 20 years in the Air Force.   He retired a full Colonel, and then went directly into one of the companies contracting to NASA, when it went from a Military Operation into being more the aspiration of President Kennedy’s dream of future Space Travel,and the goal of landing on the Moon.  As the military developed these possibilities, that became more of a scientific achievement, than merely the defense department’s superior weaponry and such; the Space Program became more publicly available.  many aspects of Nasa’s Space Program were non- military, and were provided with equipment and personnel using private contractors.  Upon his first retirement from the Air Force, he went to work for what was then Philco-Ford. (This was in the time frame of when I asked him that question, on “how he could keep up that pace, with-out seriously wanting to role over in bed and sleep 6 more hours ?..”.) He progressed, from the start of the space program, to more or less Administrative duties over those dudes we always saw at their desks on TV, with headphones and “computers?”…during a lift off. And he always ended up doing what was necessary for him and about 10 other guys, as well. Fortunately for us all, Dad was up to that task and hyperactivity runs in our family.

Now, when I think of him then, when he was (-20 years) my age, as well as my age in the present, I remember his hair was dark brown; and he could ward off the most disgusting teen-aged wastrel, with one glance. (That would be me at that time.)  My greatest fear was to disappoint him. And when he lost his tempter, it was rarely at me, as he had minions to monitor. (A much more likely group to capture his disdain.)

He is now 88 years old and living in Richardson, Texas, close to where my brother lives. He practices singing and playing his guitar every day,and learns at least two new songs for his Thursday night concerts each 2 week interval. Whereas, I do not practice my guitar, trying to focus on piano. ( However, whose got the time? ” ) If only I had that drilled-in discipline, and duty installed, or inherited, like there was no other choice.

 I grew up to his singing and playing guitar for me all through my youth, and to this day.  Though I’m his daughter, and alot of that musical interest  and talent stuck.  I’m the one with the “white” hair, and when we are together we look more like peer compaions, than Father-Daughter. Except for I limp, (artificially replaced hip and knee, one on each side)…And he’s able to walk a mile a day, which he does every morning.

   My Husband and I visited him on his birthday weekend, when this was recorded, it’s one of my dad’s favorite songs. Though two weeks earlier, I had dislocated my right arm, lifting something way too heavy for me, but I thought I could…and I did, only with some physical damage…which I had not considered the possiblility of happening before doing so.  But as it is said;” a bad workman, always blames his or her tools.(1)” (Those would be my thought processes, tsk. tsk.) So my guitar playing sucks, and my legs are still swollen up in this Video like they belong to Emmett Smith, and not to me from the 5 hour drive in our car, even with support hose…it’s the sitting still thats a problem, in a socially acceptable position. 

  Any hoo, This is a Gene Autry Song. It was my Dad’s childhood dream to be a cowboy, (preferably the singing kind.) Though he grew up in Virginia, we moved to Texas  and he did that too.  I miss our farm in Holland, Texas so much (along with it’s water moccasins, ants and “no-see-’em’s” gnats, and some of the nosiest mocking birds and cardinals in Texas,etc.) even though it was always in his care, (ergo; in perfect A-1 shape, of course)… it was always home.  

 If I’m lucky, I can  re-record this on the piano and not sound quite so much like a dweeb.  Hopefully, Charles Sauer (my husband) might feel up to the task of recording this, when I’m home and rested and inside the air conditioned house. It’s supposed to be 100 degrees outside this afternoon. I wonder why Dad didn’t want to live here? Oh, I remember; it’s way too hot, and that kid of his, with the white hair is a true wastrel, however entertaining she can be upon occasion. But, Dad, you’ve got to admit I’ve got good taste in music.

(1.) Read this in a Superman comic book.

The Mystical Mystery of our Peacock & Where did it go?

Click on song of the day: Morning Dove lyrics are here

  My husband and I have lived in this house overlooking a visually dramatic valley in North/Central Austin for nearly 16 years.  But, before things became quite so static and smoggy, back through those years when the vision out the deck doors showed no buildings at all-and the sky was clear and a bright, light-cobalt-blue;  we were visited by one of the strangest  of all creatures, a peacock.  She was lovely, obviously lonely and made such a weird sound, as to catch the attention of anyone or thing near here. At first, upon her sight, I imagined perhaps she was a wild turkey–well another one, anyway; as I had seen those in back of our yard coming in and out of that forest of cedar trees.  However, that call, her constant cry, was so unusual as to stop me in my tracks (back then, when I had tracks, I had both real hips and both real knees, and was able to make tracks without fear of falling, unlike today.) And our yard has a dynamic slope, so she had to fly toward me.  Walking was much too undignified for her species unescourted.   And fly she did; first to where I offered her some bread and the outside cat’s water bowl.  Both of which she partook, in suspicion, for nearly 5 minutes, as I sat on one of the steps down that slope in amazement and dumbfounded awe.  She did not seem to mind my company, which seemed wrong, if she was a wild creature (however, even today, few do mind my company if they are wild…I guess that’s why we have a limited group of visitors, these days,or something of that nature.)   

  At that time, in early summer, my daughter was in middle school and still interested in visiting ‘wonders of nature’, when announced by her much revered mother,(ha ha…) and was still able to comply with her “Mom”, when she came inside proclaiming loudly; “Liz, you will not believe this!  But, there’s a Peacock outside, right now, in our back yard. Come Look.”  In those days she still had a tendency to follow a direct order, and also the curiosity of an intelligent child, something that only having children in residence allows us grown-ups to share.  So we both hurried out the main outside doors of the downstairs level of our home, which had only one flight of stairs to the patio and the Peacock.  She was still there, looking really puzzled.  We both said “wow..” at the same time (Poor child’s mother was an old hippy, even back then.)  The Peacock was unimpressed with our conversation skills, so off she flew to the roof of one of the houses (there were much fewer then, and far between) perched on the street going perpendicular from our hill’s view.  But the peacock still cried, and called her alarming reframe, as did Liz and I.   “Wow” seems pretty thorough, upon reflection of that summer morning.  We sat on the stairway and watched her fly from one roof to the other, until our attention span dwindled to some less exotic subject, who knows what it was?  But after a good 20 solid minutes of Peacock watching, we went back-inside.

     As I was inclined to do in those days, I thought  (over the presence of that particular  Peacock) for quite some time, wondering if she was really native to this area, or someone’s missing bird from a flock near here, that’s a genuine possibility.  We used to go to a lovely restaurant in the center of Austin, where  there were many peacocks, and peachicks, if that’s a word, roaming the grounds…well,that was an actual flock of peacocks; and besides the old fashioned, deep south, ambiance of that establishment, the peacocks were the main attraction back then.  And so, armed with the yellow pages and about 1/8th the population of Austin today, I made several calls to the Humane Society; Parks and Wildlife division of the City Government (I had a friend working there, way back then), and the County Agricultural agent, and on and on, until some kind soul says to me,” It’s impossible to know if “your(?)” Peacock is wild or not, although it is odd that she is alone.  So go bother someone else, etc…”  Good advice, that.

    Anyway, “our” peacock came to our back yard several times during the next couple of days and then disappeared like the water in the cat dish.  I still remember that unusual call, and the amazement of sitting right beside her as she ate and drank water.  Then, there is that factor- that next door to our house were three wild and empty Lots where in several gray fox had a den…  hnmmmm. Oh, well, I like to just think she found her way home. 

   Here is the view from a web-cam looking out side our house in the direction from which the peacock came.  Only ‘difference is this is happening right now, or with in a stream during these moments, and times, today.  Try and imagine what this would be like with most of these buildings gone:When we moved in our house there were hardly any buildings except the first few houses to the right of the view; click your refresh button (F5) to get the view of how it is right now, today; as It is best to stay in the present, even without peacocks.

Song of the Day: “Moon Rise “

Lyrics, Music,Vocal, Rhythm Guitar, Slide/Country-Slack Key Guitar: Kay Buena (AKA) Caroline Abbitt Sauer:- Bass Guitar, Recording Engineer: Dr. Charles Sauer,(PHd.comp.sci.):- Drums: The Honerable Jerry Barnett.

Recorded back in 1986(?)

 Oh, great swami of the computer Empire of the network here, please bring back the picture, or actually a photocopy of the painting I did of the Snoop Dogg, of whom I have great respect, however strange than may seem to some, but to other’s: probably not.

Portraits, especially paintings can take months to years to get done. At least for me.  I thought about trying to do a portrait of Mance Lipscomb, the great Texas blues man, who died back in 1976 at the age of 80.  Thing is, I was nodin’ friends with Mance, as I went to so many of his gig’s in Austin; and he could tell I was watching what he was doing on the guitar, and learned from him by doing that; When I sat down (usually early) he and I’d nod in recognition, and that he knew I really got into his music was no secret.

    Snoop’s an abstraction to me: he wouldn’t recognize me, if I had a sign on. But Mance Lipscomb, though dead and long gone, is very real to me to this day, and those portraits of people you knew and truly loved, are much harder to face if they are done in the here and now, be they alive or not…I tryed but couldn’t. I think probably the next portrait i’ll try is Steve Jobs on drugs, or my husband (not on drugs) and he’d be a great model. ‘Hardly moves a muscle, and sits here like this for hours at a time.  Only thing is, what else can he be doing, besides what you’re doing, in which he would be willing to participate?  I mean that’s not assumming this pose in front of the computer and typing away like a mad crazed field mouse working on something vaguely eatable is perverse, or even a bad or wrong thing to do, but I just want to see a person,in person; not actively hooked up to and interacting within/to this damn thing. (? )Nothing.  Well, So be it.  Maybe if I tryed the lifesized sculpture sitting here, he would find a hobby.

But I am in digression again.  ‘Hate when that happens.  Actually, Charles Sauer (my husband ) has an extremely beautiful sculptural quality about him.  I just wound’nt want him in my weight catagory in case we’re wrestling.  So the Life sized Terra Cotta Portrait’s out.  He’s a string bean. Looks like Alfalfa, of the Our Gang Comidies, but with way less hair, and a mustache.  Actually, He’s a very handsome man now and when he was younger he was whopper; but if and when they’re young, all men are trouble. I’m glad we’re old together; he’s rational and realistic: I’m not quite sure how to discribe my virtues, but those are not mine.  I like to think I’m sort of humerous and whitlessly clever, in a practiced way.  I trained for this, guys. And it didn’t come easy, believe me.

      When I was a freshman at the University Texas in 1965 (don’t drop dead, but some of us have had ‘extreme experiences’, within those extra years, and simply watching the music business in Austin, Texas could and can be enough to make a decent musician take up painting; Just becasue we’re talking about Social Security issues, doesn’t mean we will get them…((especially if the Democrats get in the White House, and keep the Congress busy doing nothing.)  Sorry, no politics allowed.  And Just because I rarely leave my home these days, or nights, doesn’t mean that was always the case). )  I’m used to being an outcast, not only was I a Military Brat (yeah, yeah…we heard about it -already…) but I also worked for the Internal Revenue Service,for four tax seasons, and then they treathened to promote me. This was after I graduated from college; my art degree came in handy as candy in those days around here. And who is less popular than a tax examiner for the Infernal Revenue Service ? Course the population was about 3/4 less than now at that time, and all the start-up jobs were held by college students or people who wouldn’t budge till they keeled over dead, kicked the bucket and later died.  Oh, well, I lived through it.   

I used to spend every night I could watching these great Texas Blues men,–And speaking of Lightnin Hopkins, (which I wasn’t) he and Mance had a real good relationship:they were not trying to put the other person down; and when Lightnin would say,”There’s Mance Lipscomb, he ain’t learned a new song since 1942.”, then Mance would top that by saying: “Theres Lightnin Hopkins, playing the blues…in E.” (for those non-musicians, that’s the easy key on the guitar for blues, no question about it.)  Mance played blues in so many keys it was supernatural.  He also played Texas “Slack Key” with his pocket knife. But Those Rilvalrys are good for business, and “giving them the business” as well, made both of them happy and competitive.   

  I always wondered why Lightnin had a problem with old songs?  ‘Cause, frankly…that’s where I’m headed, and rightfully so… I’m the real deal.  I learned how to play and sing from the real thing; my family, particularly from my Dad of Appomattox, Virginia: (check him out on ‘You Tube‘(”Col. Charlie Abbitt, live at the Wellington”, or something of that nature)…he’s great and still at it.  And the songs were so musically delightful, varied, and complex that we all listened to in my home, as to keep any kid, young adult, or old geeze (such as myself) entranced. It was normal to go around doing your usual and singing to yourself.  It was also normal to go around talking to yourself; which is a practice I still Keep, in these current times, as I am the most intelligent conversationalist in the house (the other one types, no talking permitted.) excluding my cats.

  ‘Thing about Mance Lipscomb was everything he played struck me in my home grown heart.  His music, his graciousness, and his ability for self-expression, were like nothing I have every seen in my, then, short life. I had only experienced this other times that I ‘recollect”,up close and personal, was when my Dad played and sang for me, which he did all through my childhood. Or when Jerry Jeff Walker sang and played for me. We sang some together in my ”yout.” He was (and probably still is) a marvelous entertainer and musician.  I met him back then too (when I was in college). He was a fine guy, but not as sculptural. (Sorry Jerry, if you ever see this, which I doubt very much you would.) Also Ledward Ka’apana, of the Big Island of Hawaii, actually can capture anyone’s heart who listens. He still glows with joy, when we have seen him play in Hawaii. He is, in my humble opinion, one of, if not the greatest living guitar player I know of. (Also, Check skectch in “Art” section when you have logged out of the Blog; I’ve done a pretty fair sketch of Ledward Ka’apana, last time we saw him at the Royal Hawiian Hotel in Wakiaki.  I hope he still has those Saturday evening gig’s.)

      So, anywho, singing and playing guitar, etc. was and is a normal thing to do for me here…,But to do this so perfectly, as Mance did when I saw him playing the old time southern country music that I love so much, got to a place in my heart I didn’t know was there. My Uncle Georges’ licks  on the fiddle, would get you just like Mance’s. But back then I was too young to appreciate my family’s musicality.  What is it said, about “Youth being wasted on the young?”  Hey, that’s it!

    I’d found some Lightnin Hopkins records before I saw him in person, and although some think of him as the king of the Old Texas blues, like Mance said nearly every song he played was in the key of E, (which means his musical theory was limited in a big way, however inherited or learned or what ever it was). Not so with Mance; he could play blues in any key, and easily as well. Lightnin’s playing was never as full and inclusive as was Mance’s playing, but it wastruly cool, as was he then too.  Also Lightnin’ either played with a band or at least a washboard player and those were entended on filling in, and widening the drone of his fingerpicking, to put the rhythm where it needed going. (And neither of them thought or wrote like Yoda from Star Wars (sorry)….Jeeeez,)

     When I heard him or them play in their prime, that means they were about my age now.   But back then, when I was a freshman in college, I’d find out where to go hear those cool dudes playing: and go there, I would (not Yoda again!). ’Which is one explanation for my overall grade point average. 

  I play my Mance Lipscomb CD’s, especially when I’m alone in the car, some how that brings the experience all back to me.   When I’m driving I’m usually alone, and the time/space continuem isn’t always in expected perameters then, either. (hmm)_ However, the only songs I ever play, that I learned from watching him play them is  “Shine on Shine on Harvest Moon”, which I transposed to the piano and play to this day. And “If You Just Give Me Some of your Love, I’ll Buy You a V-8 Ford.”  Every time I ever try to play “Mother-less Children” (which I also learned from him too) I can’t make it through the whole thing, and If you’ve lost your mother too, I’m sure you can relate to that.

     Next time I might let youse guys hear me play those old songs, but why go there? Not Unless I get that lifesized terracotta portrait of my husband done anytime soon.   What the heck, I threaten to play the piano and have Charles tape me, let’s see if I could do that.  I can play these songs,but not in front of him, he’s too critical, you know the type? …But that would  be different anyway–and since it’s just youse guys,me and Charles, and the bigger than life Snoop Poster ( copies for sale on the web site now, just in time for Mother’s Day, or father’s day or the 4th of July…)  And I am thinking a bunch of youse guys are probably “Mothers’” for sure..(Digression again. )These are limited editions of 100, signed by this author, and artist. or not. But just to make it simple all are 18″ by 24″ .  But That’s a different matter, commerce is not my most important product, or idea; frankly I stink at economics unless it’s ESP economics, Or ESPN economics: I’m great at figuring out which football team’s gona win and why. (It’s a secret talent.)

 But if you get a chance, listen to Mance.  You can’t buy that kind of experience anymore, but check his site. You can still hear him.  

Don’t forget to click on the music “Moon Rise” at the top of this page and listen to me play guitar, rhythm and Slide-Country-Slack Key, with my learned Associates.  (back when I could do that)

 As ever,

Kay Buena (AKA) Caroline Abbitt Sauer

     Once upon a time in a place far away from Austin, Texas, there lived a little idiot girl named Caroline and her family, who went all over the place, and she hated them all because of that.  And who would not?  Little girls like to feel cared for, secure and comforted, not dragged around like some old chair no body cares much ’bout, especially when they’re young.

     Now, oddly enough, that Little Girl changed, -overnight-  into a grizzlie Old Lady, who’s hand’s looked like a combination of her mother’s and her father’s hands, when they got old ( but it was like you could see both of their hands at the same time, every time she looked down at them, and they wouldn’t change back. ) And she hated them all because of that too.

     About the only thing truly good about her family, besides herself and her dog, Jenny,( well…maybe Jenny was really the only good one among that lot) she thought, but the truly good thing about her family that made them real speacial, was her father was kin to Pocahantas’ son.  Now, she was aware that this seemed like some form of somebody else’s idea of a load of horse doo, but it’wer the God’s honest truth.  She had seen the proof of that  fact with her very own eyes, ’cause one of her cousins did a big deal Thesis, and done got “a amster’ degree’ from college, which I ’spect is better than a regular degree, but it’s hard to say. First time she heard that one, she though her cousin got a “hamster degree”, which sounds allot more likely.  But in truth, she did see with her own two eyes from copies of the ‘census’ taken over the years, where you could follow that group back to who was who’s mother and dad and all that, and the ”piece of resistance” was the original land grant given to her grandmother’s family from King George III. Those kin of her’s must have been nuts as a cheezeball, cause old King George of England was crazy as they come; so he must have liked ‘em right fine, cause they got an enormous acreage, at the time it was given- it was something like 6,ooo acres of prime farming land in the Virginia territory.  She thought it out and was pretty darn sure if her dad was kin to Pocahontas’s son, ‘chances are just as good that her father  (and this Little Girl that turned into a grizzled Old Lady) were “kins” with that old boy’s mothers ’s-well, that’d be Pocahontas’ hereself.  It weren’t hard to follow that reasoning.

     That means that some part of that little girl was really an Indian, from  the Virginia territories. She didn’t know what part that were, but it didn’t matter much.  So she decided to start  play-acting with her dog,  Jenny (she’s part border collie, which are very smart dogs) in the Old Dog House right back of this particular house, that’s one of the houses they lived in when they went all over the place; And since she learned as how she was part Indian, for real, she could slip into that role quite naturally and easily, ’speacially with that striped towel wrapped around her shoulders like an indian blanket. But even though she was pretending, she really was an Indian Girl all by her self, with her dog in front of an unlit cooking-fire, inside a little old house, (so that was like ironic or doublely strange)–Only she was too little, or too stupid, or too much of an idiot (like I said about her in the first place) so it seemed she weren’t able to figure in a lot of important stuff she was needing to learn about later, but after all she was only 6 years old. What could you expect, Rocket Science? 

      First off, she was gonna have a cooking fire like ’twas done when she saw Indians in the movies, but instead she ‘oughten’ to have put the fire in a more practical place, like outside, but she made up a right nice fire by the front of the door opening, so the other Indians would see the glow of the fire and know she was back there in that dog house. It didn’t seem like a bad Idea at first, ’cause it was just going to be a little fire. 

     When Jenny saw that one coming on, she took off quicker’d you could spit, cause she was one fine smart doggie.  But The little Indian Girl stayed right there, still staring into the fire, as it grew from the leaves she put on the bottom of the little dried tree branches she’d collected and carefully put all up into a stepel shape there, all by herself.   And the fire was so pretty, and it smelled real good, ’cause the branches came from under an apple tree in that back yard. But about the time she first noticed her fire was getting too big, there sort of whooshed out a strange noise, not like the fires she’d watched and listened to in fire places in other houses.  It sounded sort of like a whistling tune, but real quiet like it was whisperin to her, but with no real stable melody to it. But it was nice and warm inside that Dog house, and then the fire started to look stronger and bigger than she figured it’d ever grow on to be. She seemed to be hypnotized, but not in that weird way where her eyes would be going all in circles like the way they was always doin in the cartoons, but in a peaceful, solid way, as she continured to look into her “cookin’ fire”, and she wasn’t ‘ascared like she knew she ought to be. Then the ”cooking fire” started catching onto the wood of the dog house, first into the floor and then up one side, and then to the other side.  But there she sat, cross-legged in the back of all that as ’twas goin on at the same time.   Only when the fire was a whole lot bigger than she was, did she understand that she was probably going to be on fire too, pretty much the next thing, cause it wouldn’t stop. And that wouldn’t be so pretty, and that wouldn’t smell real good either.

     It was so smokey in there, kind of like when her parent’s gave parties and every one was smoking ci-gars only worse than that, but the wind outside started kicking up ’cause she could hear that too.  Then some way out of that wind, came a strange sounding, moving real big shapeless thing that looked like it was a bunch of darker smoke, but  was real fast-like. And it wasn’t coming from her little puny legs and idiot head, that did this, but that smoke thing just sort of quicker you’d ever think any thing was possible, or any one she ever saw could do (and she was a fast runner herself, so she was on to what fast was), what ever that smoke thing was had her out of  and on the out side of that fire so quickly, she couldn’t even speculate or figure when it was done!  But she was out on the other side of the fire, still left sitting cross-legged, but definely outside of the burning dog house.  And that weird smoke-soundin’ whistlen continued, all during this that happened, and allot weirder than her brother’s eyes when he crossed’em and he whistled out the space a’ween his front teeth, that was her usual ”too strange” thing, but not nearly as strange as that dark stuff that looked like compacted smoke, whisperin that quiet same whistling tune with no real melody to it.  And then that thing just faded into the direction the wind blew the smoke.   The little Indian Girl figured she ought to walk that way too, only real fast, so she wasn’t there when her family noticed what’d happened.   She might even find that same whistling wind-thing that took her out of that fire, cause she could have still been in the back where she’d be all black and burnt up, but she wasn’t; cause there she was, walking real fast, only  all covered with some black dirt, and the ends of her braded hair were sindged too; but she kept looking around  where she was, tryin’ to figure how that might have happend in some reasonable way, even though there wasn’t any clue ’sept that sound went where she followed.

       But she found nothing there once she got way far from the smoke, she kept on walking that direction just for good measure, afor quite some time, cause she was way on down their street almost to the end of it, just thinking about what had happened that afternoon.  She even figured she didn’t really hate all her family either, only when they got real mad at her, like if she burned down the dog house on purpose or something. The she stopped walking and breathed real hard and stood real still, and went back to face the music, cause she couldn’t go on walking that way any further.

      The  whole Dog House and most everything near there was all burned down, and ruined, and black, and gone that day.  Even the climbin’ ‘Old Roses” next door on that fence that surrounded the back yard were that way too,black and mostly gone. There was only one big ( mostly blurt up) red rose left hanging on to the fence. She went there and took that away cause it was too awful to see. What was the Dog House was so awfully charred and gone, and every one in her family (that she’d mostly hated for pretty stupid reasons) were so truly sad about what happened there in the back yard , she could tell by looking at their faces. I think her mother had cried while she was out walkin’, but then  her mother looked real stern and went back inside the big house. The Little Indian Girl wished she could tell them about how that whistling smoke thing moved her out back of the fire, on to the outside yard. But she knew that wouldn’t believe her, “her and her stories.” Now, she hated herself too, even though what happened was miraculous and true, and it weren’t her fault, really.

       It stayed that way until her dad, took all that old black, left-over burned wood away. And her dad knew how to plant pretty green plants, in that place, a whole lot of new pretty bushes and flowers, so you’d never know about what’d happend. What was that dog house, I ’spect, were’t nary a piece left over, and she got to be the one who mostly helped him put those new green plants too. Even when she looked at her brother, and he was doing that eye-crossed whistle thing to make fun of her, that seemed alright.  Even though they did that and it was so much better to see, she still felt real guilty, cause she knew she was the little Indian girl that caused that fire, but she wasn’t brave enough to say it were her that made that fire. And they would have hated her too. She had some suspicions they knew it was her that was bad; but they never said nothing ’bout that, not one word.

    By the next Spring, that yard was more pretty than it ever had been. Only thing that was bad, was the Old Red Roses to the front of that house that used to bloom so pretty, the one’s climbed over a white arched trellis there, died on down to the roots for no reason we could figure.  I guess sometimes that just happens. Even when The Little Indian Girl turned into being that Old Grisslie Lady, she’d think about what happened back then. Sometime’s she’d cry too, but it wasn’t a’cause the dog house burnt down, it was a’cause they were all gone but her-and they never even knew what really happened.

My rear aint even near to those gloreous mornings

that flowered in the inside, were always in mourning

My site wasn’t  cool, since only a fool would believe me to be

in that picture, right next to the flowers, all torn and tattered

They took out my humor too, though what does that matter?

Since then, I’m no longer walking, that ass is much fatter.