One of my lovely readers asked, “If Going Greene were a movie, who would you cast in the roles?” Great question, I thought; but I’m not much of a movie expert. So I thought I’d ask y’all instead:
If Going Greene were a movie, who would play Simon Greene? The Exquisite Mary Robins? Tommy Higgins? Bubba? Send me your answers — maybe you’ll win the Oscar for Best Casting for a Non-existent Film!
So many readers have asked which real town is the model for Chipping Norton, Virginia. I’ll never tell…unless somebody guesses. What’s your best guess? (Thanks to my dear friend Nathan Beck for this wonderful picture of a “random” Virginia town.)
Once again it’s breakfast and books: this time the poetry of dear W.H. Auden, who always enthralls. As he grew older, he seems to have gained clarity about his life that few of his contemporaries ever attained. This morning, I’m captivated by these words:
Now, as I mellow in years
and home in a bountiful landscape,
Nature allures me again.
Fondly I ponder You all:
without You I couldn’t have managed
even my weakest of lines.
Beautifully said. Auden expresses my gratitude to all of you better than I ever could.
It is a crisp Virginia morning; and my black lab, Falstaff, and I are listening to Bach. He has no vote in what we listen to. His taste in music is dreadful, anyway. Like his namesake, my dog is lazy and corpulent, and he listens to Bach because that’s what one does while one waits for delicate crumbs to alight on the floor from the breakfast table.
It is clear to me, in fact, that Falstaff isn’t really interested in the music at all, so I try a different tack. I open my copy of Miss Eudora’s The Golden Apples and read him a few lines: the bit about how Virgie Rainey threw the Étude on the floor during her piano lesson. Falstaff seems to like this bit, especially since it deals with things falling on the floor. I nudge an end of bacon over the table’s edge and he munches it contentedly, in sloppy time to the morning music.